


Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Stabdad (Integrated Worlds) [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Happy Ending, Integrated Worlds AU (but not the main timeline), Mention of Child Abuse, Mention of Physical Abuse, Pale Davekat - Freeform, Stabdad, bro's abusive shithead scum okay, mention of sexual abuse, shifting pov, uhhh, you fuckers made me write an AU of an AU how dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-14 11:00:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15387333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: In which Jack Noir trades a small chunk of his weapons stock to a shithead named Strider, in exchange for aforementioned shithead's kid, because Bro doesn't fucking deserve to have a kid and Dave deserves to not be in the situation he's in. Also known as, the Stabdad AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Offer and Rejection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15110876) by [Corvid_Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight). 



> **  
> **  
> [»»READ THIS FIRST««](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15110876) (update: i just added that to the beginning of this fic, you don't actually have to go read it anymore lmao)  
>   
> 
> This is NOT part of the main Integrated Worlds series; this timeline diverges where Jack offers to buy Dave. Here, Bro said yes instead of no, with the obvious repercussions. (I cannot _believe_ that I wrote an AU of my own AU.) 
> 
> Please read the tags! There's no actual sex scenes, but the fic is pretty clear about what Bro's put Dave through, and that might not be okay for everyone. 
> 
> Art is in the last chapter!

**== > Jack: Bargain.**

The older one's a shithead, that much is pretty damn obvious by the payment methods he offers you. Like you don't make it explicitly clear that the (highly illegal) weaponry you deal in is only on offer for those who have enough Earth currency or Alternian caegars to pay.

"Other weapons"  _might_  be an acceptable form of payment, if you like the client and if what they're offering is unusual enough. Strider can qualify for the latter, but there's no way in hell he can manage the former.

Besides, so far he's offered you drugs and (half-jokingly) sex, neither of which you're interested in. Especially since you feel like the sex would almost certainly be with the  _younger_  Strider, a skinny teenager who's obviously picked up his guardian's habit of never taking off his shades. Makes for one hell of a poker face, on both of them. Or it would, if the kid knew how to control his body language.

Which he doesn't.

Strider picks up one of the blades you've brought—cherub make, long and slim and surprisingly flexible for something that's as unbreakable as the star-forged metal is—and makes a face when his hand doesn't close around the grip properly. Hey, that's a consequence of using a weapon made for a species with a different number of fingers than plain old humans.

"This sword fuckin'  _sucks,_  Noir," he drawls, setting it back on the cloth and picking up a shorter dagger with a deep fuchsia shimmer to the metal. "I'm startin' to think ya brought me trash this time."

You're perfectly aware that the irritating Texas drawl is in his voice  _because_  it's irritating to you. Like you already said, Strider's a shithead.

"You asked for exotic." You shrug, adjusting the cherub-forged blade carefully. Damn thing's one of your prize specimens; if it was half the length you'd give it a fast track to your private collection. "I delivered."

"Sure ya did." Strider tilts his head, then sets the fuchsia knife down and looks over his shoulder. "C'mere, lil' man. Pick me out the best one."

The kid shrugs. His expression doesn't shift from  _neutrally bored_ , but to someone as experienced as you it's hard to miss how his shoulders tense up as he hops off the back of the couch, how every step looks like he's forcing himself to take it.

Damn. You wonder how many battle scars he's got hidden under that red-sleeved shirt. Not a lot of other reasons for him to hate blades as much as he obviously does.

"Pick me out a good one, Davey," Strider says, and ruffles the kid's bone-white hair in a movement that's so obviously for your benefit that it's almost laughable. Kid tenses up at that, too; the movement's slight, almost unnoticeable, and probably automatic.

_Damn._

"Katana length, right?" the kid asks, trailing his fingers across a blade you picked up from a cobaltblood troll who said he'd scored it on one of the occasional deserted worlds that exploration ships run across. You can't even put a species name to it; how's that for one of a kind?

"I ever ask for anything else? Shit, lil' man, don't be a fuckin' dumbass, how many times do I gotta tell you?" If you can detect the bite of anger in Strider's voice, the kid must hear it too. Oddly, that doesn't trigger the telltale flinch you keep seeing.

Maybe you're just reading things wrong.

"Calm the fuck down, Bro." It's a mumble, as he picks up another one of your Alternian-made weapons—this one wasn't meant for royalty, doesn't have the violet or magenta sheen that the most conventionally valuable pieces do, but you're still partial to it. The thing has a beauty beyond the beauty of that which is meant to kill, after all; roughly arm's-length, a handspan wide where the base of the blade meets the grip but tapering rapidly for the first quarter of the blade, where it gets down to two inches or so and stays that width until it hits the angled tip. The metal itself is more lightweight than should be normal, shifting from crimson to indigo depending on the angle.

The kid weighs it in his hand, tilting it back and forth to see the colors change. You don't blame him for the unguarded amazement on his face; the blade's  _stunning._

Then Strider takes it out of his hand, and you see the kid's shoulders slump as he glances up at you. This close, you realize that the shades are dark but not mirrored; you can get a glimpse of red eyes behind the veil. When he doesn't immediately look away but stares back at you stubbornly, you take the opportunity to look him over.

You're not sure what you see. Whatever it is, it makes you edgy, almost enough to tell Strider to screw himself, find a different dealer.

Instead, you look up at Strider, and nod at the sword. "That one's psionic-forged." True. "Those freaks who power the grey assholes' ships, they can use their powers to shape metal too. Makes one hell of a blade, doesn't dull and is the closest thing to unbreakable." Also true. "I've had that one for somewhere around eight years." Still true.

Time for a quick detour into  _outright lie_  country, though.

"The guy who sold me that one, he told me psi-blades form some kind'a bond with the people who own them for awhile. Longer it's owned by one person, the stronger the mental link gets."

Strider scoffs, balancing the blade on his palms to check the balance even though the kid  _just_  did that. "Ya tellin' me the goddamn sword  _thinks_?"

"I'm just repeating what I've been told." Sure you are. You're not making up a story out of whole cloth. Not at all. "Just wanted to warn you that I've heard about swords like that calling previous owners back, if they think they're getting used in an unfair fight. And me, I  _hate_  unfair fights. Might have to come back and intervene."

Strider just huffs, and turns away to check how the blade looks under the lamp. When he does, you wink at the kid.

You get a small smile back. Of course he knows you're talking out your ass, but he seems to appreciate it.

"Take this and put it away, lil' man." Strider finishes his examination, and tosses the sword to the kid. You almost cringe—that's not how you treat a good blade, or a  _sharp_  one, and that's as sharp as they come—but the kid catches it with the kind of ease born of long practice, and slips out of the room.

Strider turns back to you. "So," he says, giving you a lazy grin that shows both teeth and absolutely no camaraderie, "what do I owe you?"

You have a price in mind. Half again as much as you would charge anyone else, because this guy  _is_  a shithead.

But instead of the number, what comes out of your mouth is, "Trade you that blade and two more of your choice for the kid."

The shithead chuckles almost mockingly and picks up that cherubforged rapier again, testing the fit of his hand against the curve of the grip. "You want my lil' man, huh?"

"Yeah. You heard my offer."

"And, what? You want this to be some kind'a permanent thing?" He doesn't raise his head, but you catch a glimpse of keen orange eyes above those stupid shades. (Is orange a normal color for humans? You're not one hundred percent sure, but you really don't think so.) "You planning on keeping him for a pet or some shit? I'm gonna warn you right now, he ain't gonna be easy to...train."

"Let me worry about that." You fold your arms, lean against the wall. You do _not_ glance over at the kid, who just slipped back into the room and is frowning slightly at the fact that you haven't yet begun to pack the blades away. "Four blades, plus the one you already picked out, and you give me all the shit that'd give you a claim on him. Make it all legal."

"Can't do all that tonight." The shithead shrugs, setting the katana he's examining down. His placement of it is deliberately different from where you'd had it, enough to be noticeable and meaningful.

He's chosen it.

He's agreed to the deal. Maybe subconsciously, but he's still agreed.

"Then you get two now, drop me a line tomorrow when you have the papers and whatever else, and I'll bring you the other three."

"Day after tomorrow. Custody papers're an absolute _bitch_ to get sorted out, Noir." Strider moves two other swords next to the katana and looks up at you. The shithead's actually _smirking_. You haven't actually seen that exact facial expression on a human before. "Three now. Lil' man's worth it; you can totally get your money's worth in a day and a half. Davey here's got some experience."

When your mind processes what type of experience he's talking about, you very nearly give him a god damn fist to the face.

But you need to at least seem professional, so you shrug and wave a hand dismissively. "What you mean is, he ain't a virgin. No extra value to destroy there, is all. Two now, three later." Damn, you hate saying this shit.

The shithead huffs, scooping up the katana in one hand and a relatively-cheap blackmetal blade forged of asteroid iron in the other, and looks over at the kid. "Yo, lil' man."

Now that the shithead's looking, you can look too. Poor kid still has that perfect poker face in place, but his hands are clenched so tight he's got to be tearing up his palms with his nails. (You're really going to have to talk to him about his body language. Having tells ain't exactly a problem, but having tells that actually hurt him? Needs fixing.)

He's furious. Or humiliated. Or terrified. Or some fucked-up blend of all that and more. Whatever emotion it is, it doesn't keep him from just raising one eyebrow in response to the shithead calling attention to him.

"Grab that shiny piece of shit from wherever you put it; I changed my mind on that one," Strider says, grinning like he didn't just sell off the kid for a couple of blades less valuable than _that shiny piece of shit_. "And then go grab you shit for an overnighter. We just came to a lil' bit of a different deal."

The way the set of the kid's shoulders changes is very easy to read. Unambiguous, you might say.

_Resignation._

* * *

**== > Dave: Just fucking do this shit again.**

Yeah, you've done this before. So fucking what? It's what your bro wants you to do, and it's sure a hell of a lot better than the alternatives. You'd rather be fucked by guys you don't know than have Bro film you getting him off or him not-quite-fucking you on camera, that's for sure. And a night with Noir is _definitely_ gonna be less painful than testing out all those new additions to the goddamn sword collection.

(Your brain wants to remind you of the fact that sadists do exist, and that Noir could very well be one, and that even if he isn't you're still pretty bruised up from the strife session the night before last. Your brain wants to remind you that yeah, this is probably going to hurt more than usual, and you mentally tell your brain to go fuck itself in the ocean.)

Anyway.

You retrieve the psionic-sword—carefully, like it's a goddamn holy object because to you it might as well be, it's so deadly and beautiful—and return it to Noir, not actually meeting his eyes at any point. 'Course, you got your shades on, but you still don't plan on looking at him. Maybe at all, if you can get away with it.

Bastard.

All the guys who pay Bro for this shit are bastards. All the guys who want this from _you_ are bastards—

 _Oh, all of them?_ a nasty little voice in the back of your head asks, as you dig around in the closet for the bag prepacked with a couple changes of clothes, condoms and lube and painkillers just in case. _They're all bastards? The guy who raised you, takes care of you and patches up your fuckups, he's a bastard too?_

Usually, you'd tell yourself that no, Bro's cool, he's fine.

Right now?

Right now, you grit your teeth and hoist the bag over your shoulder, and go back out to follow Noir out to his car.

* * *

**== > Jack: Get the hell out of this neighborhood. **

The kid seems to avoid looking at you as you stash your goods back in the car; those aviators keep you from being one hundred percent sure _where_ he's looking, though. What the hell is it with these Striders and eyewear? Is there some kind of reason that they seem to want to effectively blind themselves by wearing shades in the middle of the night?

You puzzle over that conundrum for a moment before coming to the conclusion that humans are weird, and leaving it at that.

There's room in the backseat, but the kid doesn't even glance back there. Nah, he jerks open the passenger-side front door, settles himself in that seat while you're still fussing over your all-important cases of blades; by the time you finish fixing the cargo to your satisfaction and slide into the driver's seat, he's (apparently) absorbed with something on his phone. Not a game, though; your carefully casual glance shows you red and grey text, and his thumbs moving to type about four hundred times faster than you can manage.

You still haven't got over being mildly impressed with kids who can type like that on those tiny screens. God damn.

Right now, however, you turn your attention back to the road before he can notice you looking, pulling out away from the shithead's apartment building. It's a god damn pity you have to come back the day after tomorrow.

The kid, unlike most kids you've ended up being anywhere near, seems perfectly happy to just not say anything. Ugh.

You search around for some way to talk to him, and come up mostly empty handed. Mostly. "Hey. Kid. Your, uh..."

He glances up at you, lowering the phone to his lap but not turning it off. "Bro. He's my bro, dude, this isn't rocket science."

"Yeah, your bro. He's got a thing for cyber shit, right?"

"That's an understatement. Why, did you need some spyware too? He's the one to ask, not me—"

"Nah. But your phone, if he's got that kinda shit on it I'd rather have you turn it off when we get to my place." And because his shoulders slump almost imperceptibly when you tell him that, you add quickly, "I got a computer you can have instead. Fancy thing, bonus from sourcing a lance for some fanboy tech asshole—I think I turned it on once after he set it up for me, took one look at the setup and went back to my nice simple one. You take it; till run whatever you want it to run, and it's not like I'm ever planning on using it."

Damn, when did you get this wordy?

The kid just shrugs and goes back to his lightning-quick typing. "Thanks...but you know it's not going to get you anything special from me, right? Bro's the one you have to bribe for that shit, not me."

"Wha—" Fuck, he still thinks this is about sex. "Kid, I don't want anything from you."

He laughs. Short, sharp sound; it's odd to hear it coming out of a kid like that.

"I'm serious."

"Dude. I know how much those swords are worth. You want a _fuck_ of a lot of shit from me." His head tilts, just a bit. He's staring at you now. "Either that, or you're...really weird. Or really stupid."

"Nah. None of the above." You glance over at the kid for just a second, try out a smile.

From the profoundly unimpressed look on his face, you probably shouldn't try that again.

* * *

**== > Dave: Fuck around.**

(Not literally.)

Which is, like. Weird. Not fucking around, in the true sense of that verb. Noir fools around with the couch for maybe ten minutes, finally figures out how to get it to fold out into a bed and leaves you to arrange your shit and some blankets he digs out of a chest that's being used as a table. By the time that you decide that "big fuckin' heap" is the most comfortable set-up, he comes back with a fucking top-level gaming laptop. Like, _Bro_ doesn't have one this nice. You're not sure it's at all possible to buy one this nice.

Instead of just unlocking it for you, he pushes the computer into your hands and says, "Password's Midnight1014, first letter capitalized. You change it to whatever you want, kid."

You process that last sentence for a minute, automatically opening the laptop and turning it on, noting that it's got almost a full charge as you type in the password. Then the meaning of what he just told you to do processes, and you conclude that that makes _no_ fucking sense.

"Change the password." You stare up at him. He looks down at you. Fuck, he's got a better poker face than anybody but your bro and maybe you. "What the fuck?"

"It's your computer now, kid." He shrugs, a quick forward-roll of his shoulders. "Why the hell would you want my password on it? Defeats the purpose, don't'cha think?"

"My compu—dude, you can't do that? You...that's—wh—"

So, you're at a loss for words. It's justified, okay? Bro doesn't like it when clients give you shit; dumb lil' stuff is fine, he just snorts and ignores it if he deigns to notice it at all, but this ain't dumb, and this ain't little! This is a computer that costs probably as much as a fucking nice-ish _car_!

Jack Noir's staring down at you, a look of faint amusement on his face. "You alright, kid?"

Okay, you might have just frozen up for...some length of time. Maybe like a couple minutes. Fucking hell.

"I'm _fine_. Did Bro not bother telling you my name, or do you just have some kinda daddy dom fetish you're trying to play into here?" You start the process of finding the screen to change the password, keeping your hand movements small and unobtrusive and your head at an angle that'll make it look like you're looking at him instead of the screen, since he can't actually see your eyes. No way are you ditching the shades until he forces you too. "Because, like, I gotta know what you want. From me, I mean. If you got a specific ideal sub or whatever, I can—"

"Stars and _space_ , kid," Noir growls, cutting you off midsentence, "can you not just take a guy's word that he's not a goddamn pedophile?"

"When the guy trades about what, a couple hundred grand for a fifteen-year-old? No, not really." The password's set, to something pretty much no one is gonna guess. Well, hopefully not. "Why the fuck else would you want me?"

He blinks.

Then he says, "Take your shirt off," and fuck but you _hate_ being proved right.

* * *

**== > Jack: Attempt to keep your cool.**

The kid doesn't even hesitate when you tell him to get his shirt off, just huffs in a quietly understated _I knew it_ way and sets the laptop down on the fold-out bed, reaches down and pulls his shirt off in one smooth, practiced motion that's graceful and horrible for being graceful. You have no fucking clue how he doesn't knock the shades off, but he doesn't, and the end result is the kid dropping the shirt on the floor, leaning back a little and tipping his head back to look at you.

"Want me to keep going?" he asks.

"Nah. This is what I wanted to see; plenty of shit here to prove my point."

"What point?" From that tone, he's rolling his eyes behind the tinted lenses.

"All these." You lean down, reaching out like you're going to touch the messy fading bruises across one shoulder and stopping just short of making contact. "This?" Your hand moves to a cut that looks like it's been stitched by someone who knew what he was doing but didn't attend med school; there's a certain look to that kind of work. "These, this shit." Scars, pretty much everywhere. More bruising low on his ribs, in a pattern that you'd bet your best knife is from a hard kick. "You want a why, that's why."

The kid snorts, crossing his arms over his chest in a movement that's supposed to look irritated and actually comes across as a weak effort to hide the marks. Doesn't work, either; his arms've been worked over, too. "So you got a thing for banged-up twinks."

"...I'm not even sure what a twink is, kid."

"My name is _Dave._ "

"Alright, Dave. What's it gonna take to get it through your stubborn little noggin that I'm not planning on fucking you?" _How the fuck do I get you to trust me,_ is what you mean, but he'll laugh in your face if you ask that, and you wouldn't really blame him. It's a stupid question.

He still almost laughs. You see his expression flicker as he considers possible responses, weighs the appearance of each and discards the less desirable ones before settling on one course of action.

"I'll believe it when you drop me off at the apartment and I can honestly tell Bro nothing happened," he says, finally. "Which we both know ain't gonna happen. You paid too much to waste it just so you can say I'm wrong."

"It ain't gonna happen, but for a whole 'nother reason than why you think, kid," you tell him. Then you sigh, and rub your forehead. "Dave. Not kid. Apologies."

This is much more exasperating than you thought it would be.

* * *

**== > Dave: Curl up in your goddamn blanket heap with your goddamn laptop.**

Well, you wait until Noir leaves to do that, obviously. Surprisingly, it's only a couple minutes until he does, and he doesn't touch you.

You stare after him for a second, then retrieve your shirt and pull it back on, grab the laptop and crawl into the blankets and log into pesterchum to continue what you were doing in the car.

Amazingly, your conversational partner is still there. Although he has said a couple things in your absence. Many of them are "fuck."

TG: fuck dude can you maybe chill for two whole minutes  
TG: which was about how long i was gone so youre totally overreacting

CG: REALLY, DAVE? REALLY?   
CG: DID YOU FUCKING FORGET THAY I HAVE MY ASSHAT BROTHER HERE, REMINDING ME EVERY FEW SECONDS THAT "screen time sh9ld 6e limited t9 twenty minutes at a time and y9u've 6een usin9 your ph9ne f9r three hours strai9ht Karkat"?  
CG: I KNOW *EXACTLY* HOW LONG IT'S BEEN.

TG: okay then how long

CG: ...  
CG: MORE THAN TWO MINUTES. SHUT UP. I'M TOO TIRED TO KEEP TRACK OF NUMBERS.

TG: aw damn its super fucking late and you stayed up trying to keep talking to me didnt you  
TG: you dumbass youre supposed to tell me when its like bedtime on murder world

CG: I KNOW YOU KNOW MY PLANET'S CALLED ALTERNIA, YOU INSUFFERABLE NOOKSTAIN.

TG: not sure what you just called me but i take offense to it  
TG: tell me goodbye

CG: I DON'T SEE WHY I SHOULD. YOU SEEM FINE WITH JUST FUCKING RIGHT OFF WITHOUT SAYING ANYTHING.  
CG: ...  
CG: DAVE? DON'T TELL ME YOU LEFT AGAIN. SERIOUSLY, ARE YOU OKAY?  
CG: WHAT'S EVEN GOING ON AT YOUR END? IS YOUR LUSUS BEING SHITTY TO YOU?

TG: nah im fine chill

CG: /:B ? 

TG: uh  
TG: fell asleep for a sec

CG: LIAR. WE BOTH KNOW YOUR NIGHTS AND MY NIGHTS ALMOST NEVER LINE UP LIKE THAT.

TG: i mean youre right which makes the fact that its actually night here too kind of ironic 

CG: IRONIC.

TG: or something  
TG: look im gonna level with you and tell you that im not leveling with you right now okay  
TG: can we just do the goodbyes and you go the fuck to sleep and i probably go the fuck to sleep and maybe i can do a better explaining session tomorrow or something

CG: UGH. YOU'RE SO FUCKING IRRITATING SOMETIMES, STRIDER.

TG: yep i definitely am

CG: DUMBASS. AND I MEAN THAT AS SOME KIND OF COMPLIMENT, YOU KNOW.   
CG: BYE, DAVE. TALK TO YOU LATER.   
CG: GET SOME FUCKING SLEEP.

carcinoGeneticist is offline!

You type in a quick goodbye to him and close pesterchum, too, and after a brief hesitation you turn the laptop off and stash it with your bag. He told you to sleep, so you'll sleep.

Well, maybe. Until (unless?) Noir wants something from you.  
You remind the dumb hopeful piece of your mind that he probably _will_ want something from you tonight, don't be so naive, you saw the swords he paid Bro in...and then you grab a pillow, clutch it up to your chest and close your eyes.

You're tired. It doesn't take long to go to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**== > Jack: Let the ki—goddamnit. Let _Dave_ sleep in.**

He's still out cold when you get up the next morning. (Or maybe he's just playing dead, testing your reaction; you can't rule that out. He doesn't trust you, after all, and he doesn't know you well enough to anticipate your actions; experimentation with how you react to _his_ actions is the first logical course.) 

(Or he's a teenager who doesn't ever get enough sleep. You think that that's a thing with humans around this age. Sleeping pretty much all the time.) 

Anyway, you leave the lights off in the living room, making your way through to the kitchen more-or-less silently. Might as well make some breakfast; either it'll be ready when he gets up, or you'll end up eating what you make and fixing him up whatever he wants. Well, whatever he wants within reason. 

"Within reason" is bacon, eggs, oatmeal, and some kind of weird pink meat that you don't remember buying. Paint needs to label what she brings you; you have no idea what this is. Seems to be precooked, though, going by the texture, and tastes okay. Salty. 

Hmmm. 

Twenty minutes later, Dave half-stumbles into the kitchen with his shades pushed up on top of his sleep-messy hair so he can get at his eyes to rub the sleep out of them...and stops dead, staring at your breakfast of choice. "Holy _shit._ " He draws the second word out, maybe not consciously. You're willing to bet that the kid's still half asleep. "The fuck is that? It looks like _brains,_ dude. Brains with like, chunks." 

You look down at your plate, frown slightly and take another bite before you answer. "Oatmeal 'n meat." 

"...what." He stares at you, bright red eyes not-quite-focused. (That's another color you didn't know humans could have. Huh.) "Oatmeal. Meat. _What_?" 

"Oatmeal," you explain patiently, "comes from a plant. I'm pretty sure it's Earth-native, kid. Meat comes from an animal." 

"...I smell bacon." 

"See, that comes from a pig, specifically. Also Earth-native. Not so great in oatmeal; too crunchy." You take another bite of oatmeal-and-meat, then point with your spoon. "It's all on the counter. Got milk in the fridge, instant coffee in the drawer by the microwave." 

"Ohthankgod," Dave mumbles, the words so close together that it's like one indecipherable sound, and goes straight for the drawer.

It only takes him a second to track down a cup and mix way too much powder with not enough water, staring at the microwave like he expects it to steal his caffeine until it beeps to tell him to retrieve his beverage. The reason for the high instant-coffee-to-water ratio becomes apparent when he fills the cup the rest of the way with milk. 

With that most important task accomplished, the kid turns his attention to the actual food. 

"It's ham," he says, after sampling a chunk of the pink meat. "Also from a pig, if you were wondering. Goes great with like, toast or eggs or whatever." 

"Eggs're in the fridge. Bread's in the cabinet; toaster's, uh..." Where is your toaster? You know you owned one at one point, but it's not on the counter. Damn, who'd you lend it to? 

Dave huffs, rolling his eyes and pushing his shades down onto his nose before chomping down on a strip of bacon. "I meant for you, dude. Since you seem to think just mixing it in with your goddamn oatmeal works." 

"It does work." 

"Gross." 

"Shut up 'n eat your dead pig." 

He snorts, but he does follow at least the second directive. The first one, not so much. "You taking me back home, or is Bro planning on picking me up?" 

"If you spit chewed-up shit everywhere I'm going to be less than ecstatic, kid. And neither." 

He stops chewing for a second, face screwing up in confusion. "Neither?" 

"We're going shopping." 

The look on Dave's face suggests that he's baffled by your statement. To some extent, so are you; you hadn't actually gotten as far as planning out what the hell you're planning on doing with him, long-term or short. But shopping does seem like an okay plan, for right now at least—get him some shit (you somehow doubt Strider's going to let you retrieve whatever Dave didn't bring with him), let him see that you giving him shit doesn't mean he has to do anything for you in return, maybe check in with the lady who runs the counter for one of the fancy candy stores in the mall and _also_ does custom engraving as a hobby. You want a couple of the recycled steel knives her and her girlfriend make together, and so far you've missed the window to acquire one every damn time. 

Dave sighs and gulps down what seems like half of his cup of instant coffee. "Shopping."

"Yeah." 

"All right, but you're _so_ buying me Starbucks."

* * *

**== > Dave: Check out the mall.**

Oof. The mall. 

Actually, you'd like to withdraw that statement, rephrase it a lil'. 

Oof. _People._

Crowds just ain't your thing. You're really fuckin' bad at keeping track of where the person you're supposed to be with is; it's bad enough with Bro, who's about six five and legit never takes off his hat and shades, but Noir is a hell of a lot closer to your height and possessed of the enviable ability of seeming to kind of disappear when you're not looking at him.

This, despite the fact that he's wearing a goddamn trenchcoat that's markedly closer to jet black than his already-dark skin. And wearing a hat. You don't think you've seen him without that hat yet. 

At least it's early enough that there's not actually enough people to technically qualify as a crowd. 

And he did buy you Starbucks. Unfortunately for him, the first result of that is that you choose to just wander around windowshopping while you drink your caramel vanilla whateverthefuck, figuring out where the more interesting shops are located. Not that you're sure if you're going to leave with anything. 

Really, that all depends on Jack Noir. 

"So how much money are you planning on spending on me?" You pop the lid off your cup, drink the last swallow or so and toss the empty cup in a trash can, looking over at him. "And 'anything within reason' ain't an acceptable answer if you actually wanna buy shit, because I'm not gonna pick anything out if—" 

"Remember the sword you liked from last night?" 

"The weird shimmery one? Yeah, what about it?" 

"You know how much it's worth." The corner of Noir's mouth twitches upward; you kind of wonder if he's laughing at you. "That's your budget. Anything you think you're going to need, we get. Hell, you technically don't have to _need_ it, either." 

You just stare at him for a minute or so, mentally going over your memory of last night, making sure that you actually remember the price he told Bro on that sword. You do remember. Of course you remember. Again, you could totally get a decent used car for that amount of money.

Jesus. 

"Dude," you tell him, "you're _so_ not gonna get your money's worth back on me." 

"It's not about the money, kid." 

"No?" Shit's _always_ about the money, on some level. Money, gratification, something along those lines. You just wish you knew what the fuck Noir wants. "Too bad you can't give me an answer on what it is about, then." 

Before he can answer and keep this convo stationary, you turn around and head back the way you came from. Hopefully he'll follow. 

Yep. "Where to, kid?" 

"Quit calling me kid. And if you're dumb enough to be serious about buying me shit, we're gonna go to the weed shop and you're gonna buy me, like, six t-shirts—" 

"They sell weed at the mall?" 

"No, but they have weed shirts and posters and pipes and shit—and you're gonna get me like six t-shirts. And maybe a bong." 

"I'm pretty sure you're way too young for that, k—Dave." 

"Fuck you, those things are works of goddamn _art._ C'mon." 

You're not entirely sure that Noir believes your (totally honest) reasoning for why you want paraphernalia, but at least he just shrugs and follows you without arguing any further.


	3. Chapter 3

**== > Jack: Buy Dave a bong.**

Well, you definitely would have. Hey, this isn't the spot where you want to put your foot down; after all, you highly doubt the kid actually has weed stashed in his bag, and if he has a stash back at the shithead's apartment you somehow don't think he'll he getting that back. Giving him what he wants here has no actual downsides. 

Dave ends up passing on any of the glass creations, though. And thankfully, he doesn't _just_ pick out weed shirts. Just one, and it's less obvious than most of the ones open for consideration. The other five he picks out carry the logo of bands you have never heard of (which isn't surprising, since you have an unfortunate habit of listening to the same fifty songs over and over, _ad nauseam_ ) and/or artistic renditions of space and galaxies. 

You kind of like those space shirts. Not enough to wear one yourself, but if you could find a hat with that pattern, now...

Unfortunately, this shop does not sell hats. Maybe a different one will. 

And Dave does lead you through an array of different shops. He buys a lot of shirts, maybe because every goddamn store has a variety of those. You coax him into picking out a couple pairs of jeans, too; he can't have brought more than two or three pairs with him, and you're not too optimistic on the chances of getting any of the ones he owns back from the shithead. 

You're pretty sure that Dave doesn't actually plan on actually _shopping_ in the heavy-on-pink-glitter-and-rainbows shop, though. It's more of a shortcut to...you're guessing either the weirdly dark clothing store or the one next to it with yet _another_ display of t-shirts outside. You're not sure which. But the kid gets halfway through and stops, shifting the bags he's carrying all to one hand as he steps over to check something out. 

Huh. "Kid?" 

"Yeah, gimme a sec." What he takes off the display is a pair of shades, aviators like the ones he's wearing now but with pink-tinted lenses, shaped just slightly different. It takes you a second to figure out that they're supposed to be hearts. 

"You want those?" you ask, despite the fact that he's still turning them over in his hands, and thus obviously does want them. 

"Dunno." So he was pretty fucking clear about wanting all the clothes, and not so much on shades. Why the fuck? "They're kinda girly, I guess." 

"They're sunglasses." 

"They're pink." 

"So is blood, if you whip it up through a mixer 'til it's all frothy and shit." 

Dave stares at you for long enough that you begin to wonder if you've broken him. Then he shakes his head slightly, like he's flicking away a fly, and hands the pink shades over to you. "Fuck, man, can't argue with that logic. You gotta tell me why the _fuck_ that lil' factoid's in your repertoire, though." 

You just shrug and head for the counter. "Mostly because I've tried that experiment out before." 

"Yeah, but _why_?" 

"Eh, ask me when we get home. I'm not too keen on getting arrested in a shopping mall, after all."

* * *

**== > Dave: Don't panic. **

That's a goddamn stupid thing to say. Why would you panic? There's absolutely no fucking reason for you to not be cool, seriously. Jack Noir sticks pretty damn close to you even when you get distracted by shit, and he hasn't said a damn thing about anything you had him buy yet. Fuck, he's picked out a couple extra things for you, added them to checkout and just had 'em bagged up with your purchases. 

Maybe that's why you're not all that calm. The whole too-good-to-be-true thing. And fuck, this sure as hell is too good to be true. Too easy. He's too nice to not be leading up to something major. 

What the fuck _is_ it? 

You have no clue. Can't really think of anything that'd be worth him buying you this much shit. Being this nice to you. 

Anyway. Thinking about that is kicking your anxiety level up into the stratosphere, so you're just going to push it out of your mind. 

Noir looks over at you as the two of you walk out of a music store. (He actually bought himself four or five CDs; you didn't find anything all that interesting. You already have about three hundred hours of music stored on a cheap data storage site online and a stack of vinyl back at the apartment. Bro buys you records he knows you wants, gives 'em to you for your birthdays and shit.) 

"You hungry yet?" he asks you, already turning down the hall towards the food court. 

"Uh, I guess." It has been a while since breakfast, hasn't it? You're so fuckin' bad at judging time by your body; your metabolism's fucked enough that you're better off eating when the clock says to, because if you just eat when you get hungry enough to think you need it you'll pass out from low blood sugar first. "Yeah, probably. Food sounds good." 

Even to yourself you don't sound half as casual as you're going for. _Fuckin' anxiety bullshit. Goddamn coward._

"Probably?" Jack chuckles, a low sound that actually surprises you a bit, and digs around in one of the pockets of his coat, coming up with a neatly-folded roll of bills and holding it out to you until you actually take it. "Give me your bags, kid. Get whatever you want to eat, pick me out something too. Just make sure to grab me a water instead of soda, alright?" 

"...yeah." Fuck. _Fuck._ When was the last time you had money? Not credit cards, electronic payment that exists almost wholly in Bro's domain and disappears as easily as your guardian changes his mind. Actual untraceable cash.

What looks like a lot of it. 

_I could take off,_ you think. _Bro might not find me,_ you think. 

But yeah. He probably would. 

So you shrug and shove the money down in your pocket, head over to decide what kind of lunch a guy who puts ham chunks in his oatmeal might eat. 

* * *

**== > Jack: Be...careful.**

Dave brings you something that looks vaguely exotic to you, some kind of noodles and meat and vegetables that you don't recognize with broth, all in a styrofoam container that's too square and shallow to be a bowl. He's got himself something much less fancy: mac and cheese with some kind of sandwich. 

He slides your water across the table, taking a long drink off what looks like yet another coffee as he sits down across from you. This kid has a serious caffeine problem. 

"Can't that stuff give you a heart attack?" you ask him, fishing around in your pocket. You _know_ you have a refill of pills in here somewhere...

The kid looks confused for a second, then snorts, taking another sip as he watches you finally find the bottle and pull it out. "Nah, man, I got enough sense to get decaf after the first two. Besides, this ain't coffee. 's red chai." 

"Huh. Looks brown." 

"Hey, _I_ didn't name it." Dave shrugs, setting the cup down and picking up his sandwich instead. "What's wrong with you, anyway?" 

"What, the pills?" 

"Yeah. You don't move like you need painkillers, so unless you're so stoned on them that you already can't feel anything, I kinda doubt that's it." Another shrug, a bite out of the sandwich, and the next sentence or so comes out surprisingly clearly for being spoken through a mouthful of food. "And you're too fuckin' clear for that, so no. Not painkillers. Antibiotics? Clue me in, Noir." 

"Pretty sure that's the first time you used my name, Dave." You shake out the two you need, set them on the table and recap the bottle. "See for yourself." 

He catches it easily when you toss it at him, his right hand flicking up to intercept it even as he takes another bite. Damn, he's good. 

A second of scanning the label later, and he slides the bottle back, angling it to bounce off your container of food, shed most of the kinetic energy there and come neatly to a stop slightly off-center of the middle of the table. Good spacial analysis skills. 

"Vitamins," Dave says, and it's not inflected like a question but you read curiosity in the subtle tilt of his head anyway. "Except like, prescription ones." 

"Eh, calculating what fraction of the generic ones I need to function and getting ahold of all of them is a hassle I can do without." You swallow down the two pills with the water he brought you, then tuck the pillbottle back into one of your pockets. "Makes more sense to go to a doc and explain at great length that my species needs a set of vitamins that humans seem to do just fine without, get her to measure shit out for me." 

Dave chokes on a bite of mac and cheese, coughing for a minute or so. When he gets his airway clear enough to take another drink of his not-red chai, he immediately points out, "You're not a fucking troll." 

"Kid, just 'cause Alternia is the big flashy planet doesn't mean they're the only aliens around." You roll your eyes at him, push your sleeve up and hold out your arm for him to check out. 

Which he does, without touching. Then he looks up at you, eyebrows raised in a way that says _what am I missing here?_ as eloquently as he could with words. 

Fair enough. You do look almost human. 

"Point one." You lean forward, tapping your palm with the index finger of your other hand. "Humans ain't one color all over, especially not if they got dark skin. Don't ask me why, because I don't get it either and that's a feature on _your_ species, not mine, but that's a thing to check for, at least on black-phase carapacians." 

The kid nods. Does he look disappointed? That's actually mildly amusing, if you're reading his face right. 

"Point two—let's see your hand." When he holds out his free hand, you guide it to the point on your arm where you'd check your pulse, if you were human. "Press down. Yeah, you're not gonna hurt me, kid, I'm built tougher than that. What do you feel?" 

Dave frowns, gently pressing up and down your arm. He obviously doesn't believe you when you say he can press as hard as he wants. "Uh...feels hard. Like, bone plates?" 

"Well, not bone; it's harder than that. Takes _forever_ to heal if you put a hole through it, though." Dave retreats back to his side of the table when you go to pull your arm back, like he's sure that you're revoking his permission to touch you. "Got it pretty much all over, just under my skin, instead of the skeletal setup you humans have." 

The kid considers for a minute, then grins. "Okay, that's actually pretty fuckin' cool." 

"You could say that." 

"What kinda alien are you, though? Like, what planet?" 

"Carapacian. That's the type, not the planet. I'm not all that sure we _have_ a planet, actually; if we do, I've never been there." 

"Ouch. Kinda sucks." 

"Not really. I've been on more planets than you can shake a stick at; one great thing about my species is that we can pass for troll too, with a little bit of finangling." 

The kid laughs, covering his mouth with one hand in a halfassed attempt to pretend he's not actually laughing. "So like, fake horns?" 

"Smart kid. I usually try to pass for either a bronze or a cobalt." 

You don't expect Dave to know the reasoning behind that, but he surprises you, nodding thoughtfully. "Bronze 'cause they're low enough that most people won't check you out but tough enough they won't fuck with you either. Why cobalt?" 

"I can punch out most bluebloods, if I get the first hit in." 

"Damn, dude." 

"Yeah, we try not to advertise that shit on this planet. Most humans back off when they hear the words 'collection of several thousand bladed weapons,' so it's not like I usually need to go into the whole hand-to-hand combat ordeal." 

The kid's smile falters a bit, then fades entirely. "Swords kinda do tend to freak people out, yeah," he mumbles, poking at the mostly-empty remains of his food. 

Damn. "You have some experiences with that kind of thing with people, huh?" 

"Fuck off." 

Okay then.

Dave must see the surprise on your face or in your posture, because he sighs after a second, shrugging a bit. "Okay, so you kinda didn't deserve that." 

"Eh, just means I found a touchy spot. 'Fuck off' is code for 'change the subject,' right?" 

"Or you could just give up on trying to get to know me." The kid huffs quietly, gathering up his trash and leaning across the table to snag yours as well. "Like, I'm not even sure why you're doing this in the first place, dude. As much as I like being able to say I know shit about _two_ kinds of aliens instead of just one, you can't be getting a lot of gratification or whatever out of this—" 

"You never stop talking, do you." 

"Not unless you're seriously ordering me to. Maybe not even them; depends on how much you seem to wanna—" 

"Give it a rest with the kink assumptions, kid." Above and beyond the fact he's just a kid, you're not even sure your species is sexually compatible with his.

"Also no."

"How about you actually tell me something about yourself? I gave you privileged info on mystery aliens; seems only fair I get _something_ from you." When he smirks and opens his mouth, you quickly amend that. "Info, kid. _Info._ About _you_." 

"Fuck, you're good." Dave shrugs, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands behind his head, studying you for a moment. "Okay. I got an...uncle, I guess? Damn, it's kinda weird to call D that, but he _is_ Bro's brother, and Bro's...yeah." He makes a face, shaking his head slightly. 

"The shithead's your dad." 

"I'm not sayin' that, and you better not either. And _don't_ call him a shithead, asshole." 

"He is." 

"He's my _bro_. Just, shut up. About him." 

"Fair enough. Tell me about your uncle." 

"D." 

"Fine, about D. What about him?" 

The kid sighs, shifting a little. "Eh, he moved to Alternia back when we first made peace with them, right? Like, a couple years before I was born. Didn't come back until I was like nine or ten, I guess, and when he did he had, like two kids and a big troll boyfriend with two more kids." 

"Good for him." 

"Yeah, man. I just wish I'd like, actually gotten to hang out with the trolls, but Bro fuckin' hates aliens...anyway, I spent the whole time they were here and like, _weeks_ afterward trying to figure out whether being so fucking _jealous_ of Hal and Dirk made me a shitty person." 

"You ever come to a decision on that?" 

Dave's silent for a moment after you ask that. Then he shrugs, reaching up to adjust his shades a little. "They're my bros, they get one life and I get a different one, I'm stupid for thinking whatever I thought. Ten year olds are idiots. You done eating?" 

"Yeah. You got anything else you saw that you wanted?" 

"Not really, I guess." 

"Well, you get to take one more look around, because I still need to go see if I can't make a deal with somebody." 

Dave raises an eyebrow at that, but he doesn't ask what you mean. Just gets up and follows you out of the food court, dumping the remnants of the food and packaging in a trash can on his way out.


	4. Chapter 4

**== > Dave: Wait.**

Noir's "deal" involves him leading you to some fancy candy shop. Not what you would have expected, honestly; he really doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd have a sweet tooth. 

Or maybe it's that he's sweet on the person running the counter—an almost intimidatingly attractive woman with short hair dyed pastel pink and blue, with a white stripe down the center. She's got a plain silver band on her ring finger, though, so maybe this ain't a romantic thing, although you can't one hundred percent rule it out. 

Not that it's any of your business. 

None of this is your business; you have no fucking right to get curious about his shit. Bro fuckin' _hates_ it when you get nosy; you don't really want to find out if Noir reacts the same way. 

So you wander away from the counter, let the two of them do whatever business they got with each other, and stare at the free samples of sweet shit. The question is, do you want to take advantage of that? On one hand, you try to have a policy of never turning down free sugar. On the other hand, your stomach already feels like you got a knot of snakes wiggling around in there; adding more shit in on top of that ain't gonna help. 

It'd be just fucking perfect, to finish off your time with Noir by puking all over him or his car or something. Bro's already going to be pissed that you obviously didn't give the guy what he wanted; he'll want to know why the _fuck_ you got all this new shit when Noir didn't even fuck you. Bro's going to ask what else you gave him, and you doubt he'll believe you when you tell him you really didn't do anything wrong. 

God, going home is going to be _awful_. What did Bro say, a day and a half? Noir gets you for a day and a half? You think that's what he said...fuck, that means you have to try to manage this overwhelming feeling of sick anticipatory dread at least until sometime tomorrow. 

Unless Noir does decide to fuck you, of course. Then you'll be done, you just gotta handle the mental aftermath from _that..._

Damn. Rock and a hard place. That's where you are. Right smack dab between the two of 'em, ready to get squashed. You wish whoever has control over that fucking rock would just _do_ it already. 

"Hey. Kid." Noir taps your shoulder, snapping you out of the half-daze you've ended up in. He tilts his head a little as you look over at him, instead of at the display of saltwater taffy you were staring blankly at. "Find something you want?" 

You want today and tomorrow to be over, is what you want. "Nah. Not all that into candy right now, dude. You get what you came for?" _Stupid. Stupid. Don't ask about shit that's got nothing to do with you, idiot._

But he just nods, actually flashing you a brief but honest smile as he fishes his phone out of one of the many pockets of his duster. "Yeah, definitely. Take a look?" 

He swipes through, holds out the phone for you to see the picture on display, and you can't really hide your quiet gasp. The sword in the picture is as amazing as the psionic-forged blade, but in a different way—this one's multichromatic along the length of the blade, probably from how the maker tempered the metal, reddish to bluish to steel-grey running along the blade. And the metal is...engraved? Etched? You're pretty sure it's not painted, but you don't know how else someone would get that kind of detail, delicate roses and brambles darkly black against the brighter finish. 

"Oh my god," you murmur, and Noir smiles again and stows his phone away. 

"Yeah. Julia's work, it sells quick, and it's not like she makes a lot. Or has a set schedule for when pieces are available. I _finally_ got lucky."

"Fuck yeah you did, that thing's _beautiful._ " 

"Damn right. You ready to go home?" 

_Home_ connects with your mental picture of the apartment, spikes that goddamn dread up until you clench your fists even tighter than they've been this whole time just so you can keep the emotion off your face. "Yeah. Ready, I'm done, got everything I—" 

"Kid, let me see your hands." 

Okay, that request takes you off guard; when you parse it you don't know whether to be pissed, scared (despite the fact you didn't fuckin' _do_ anything) or amused. Your brain seems to settle on a weirdly sickening combo of all three. 

"You think I lifted something?" you ask him, uncurling your fingers and holding your hands out palms-up for his examination. "Because I have more fucking sense than that, okay, I don't—" 

"Dave, calm down. Jeez." Noir shakes his head, taps your wrist rather than your palm. "I'd tell you to turn out your pockets if I thought you stole something, not show me your hands." 

"All I got in my pockets is a pocketknife and _your_ money."

"Exactly. You're a good kid, plus you don't need to steal shit and you're smart enough to know that." 

"Then why—" 

"Your _hands,_ kid. Look at 'em." 

You do, and as you do you realize that what you've done is probably going to make wielding a sword hurt for a day or two. Your palms are red, marked with little whitish-purple crescent marks where your nails were digging into your skin. 

_Fuckin' dumbass._

"You don't even realize when you're doing that, do you?" Noir asks quietly. You glance up to see what the fuck he's thinking, and are unfortunately reminded that one of his specialities appears to be an unshakable poker face. 

"I know I'm doing it," you tell him. 

"Yeah?" 

He wants...an explanation, you guess. Or something. 

You don't really have one. You were telling the truth: you _do_ realize what you're doing to yourself, when you fuck up your palms like this, but there's not really a way to explain that it's the better alternative. That something worse would happen, if you didn't keep all the compulsive tension of anxiety in your hands, if you didn't keep that useless extra focus that's supposed to keep you alert for Bro's ambushes occupied by the little twinges of pain shifting your grip sends up your arms. 

Maybe the reason you can't explain why you have to do this is because you don't _know._ You don't know what would happen. You just know you can't ever find out. 

Fuck. 

Noir's still waiting for an answer. You just...shrug, shake your head, and head out of the shop, instead of trying to give him one.

* * *

**== > Jack: Take him home.**

The kid tries to give you back the cash in the parking lot. You're kind of surprised, actually; you saw his face when you handed it to him in the first place. The shithead obviously doesn't let him have money. _Didn't_ let him have money. 

"Keep it," you tell him, carefully arranging the bags in the backseat so they (probably) won't tip over, dump out, and make getting the contents inside more of a hassle than it needs to be. 

"What the _fuck_?" 

"Kid, it's what, thirty bucks?" 

"Forty-seven, and why the fuck would you—" 

"Because."

Dave huffs, as he slides into the passenger seat and slams the door a little harder than is strictly necessary. You take a surreptitious glance at his face as you get in the other side, and are actually surprised by the fact that his nice calm mask's finally cracked. 

Unfortunately, what it's showing is that he's pretty damn close to crying in either frustration or maybe fear. You're not all that sure which. 

" _Because_ ain't even _close_ to an answer, you _asshole_!" 

Oh, yeah. That'd definitely be frustration. 

"Kid—" 

"Fuck you!" 

Okay then. "You do know I don't give a shit if you have a tantrum, right? So long as you don't make me crash the car, you can scream all you want." And he does want to scream. Or possibly to hit something. You can see the way his hands are gripping at the seatbelt, tensing up and half-relaxing every second or so, shaking slightly when he's not holding onto the strap tight enough to make them stop. The way his jaw's working, teeth worrying at the inside of his lip instead of actually biting at it. 

Dave needs to not be in the car, not be restrained and enclosed and unable to either shed nervous energy or get away from the cause of it (if you are the cause of it, which you suspect you might be but aren't sure of) but you can't really pull over and just let him get out for a bit. Well, you _could,_ but it wouldn't help. 

He doesn't trust you nearly enough to believe that you're more than willing to delay going home in order to get him cooled off first. 

"Fuck you," the kid almost mumbles, crossing his arms and staring straight ahead. Well, keeping his face aimed straight ahead, anyway. With those shades, you're not a hundred percent sure where he's really looking. 

It's fine, either way. 

You give him a few minutes. Maybe half the time you'll spend driving from the mall to your place. Oddly enough, _he's_ the one to break the silence. 

"You taking me home?" 

"My place, yeah." 

"...I don't get why you haven't given up on whatever the fuck you want me for, Noir." Dave's gotten control of himself again, at least enough to keep his tone level and mostly-uninterested. "I mean, yeah, Bro's not gonna give you a refund, but if you don't fuckin' tell me what you want, I can't—" 

"You're not just going to take no for an answer, are you? No, I don't want anything from you?" 

He just snorts. You utterly fail to smother your irritated sigh. 

"Tell me about something else, Dave. That's all I want from you right now." 

"God, you're so fucking vague." 

"Tell me about your uncle, then. D. What does that stand for?" 

"Doesn't stand for anything." You hear him shift in his seat, and force yourself to not look over. One, you should keep your eyes on the road, and two, Dave's probably going to calm down faster if you're not scrutinizing him too closely. "His name's just D, has been for like, forever. It's on his driver's license and passport and shit. D Strider." 

"He's offplanet, right? Him and his kids?" 

"Yeah, probably. I think so." 

"You think so?" 

Dave's quiet, for too long. 

"Kid?" 

"Don't call me kid." 

"Apologies." You're not sure if he's going to use that as an excuse to "forget" your question. If he does, you'll let it go. 

But Dave surprises you. Again. 

"Bro doesn't talk to him," the kid says. "I dunno whether that's his choice, or D's. So, like. I don't talk to him either, except when him or Dirk or Hal texts me happy birthday or whatever." 

Ah. 

Okay. So the shithead wanted to keep his family away from Dave. See, that could mean that there's a chance D Strider would be less than thrilled with how the kid's been treated, maybe that he'd want to know about the measures you've taken and _possibly_ act as a more appropriate dad than you probably can. 

You're going to need to look into that. Kid deserves to be with the less-shitty portion of his family, if that's possible. 

If you had time, you'd probably ask Dave some more questions about this, but you're already at the point where you have to pull the car to a stop, put it in park and shut the engine off. He's got his seatbelt undone before you actually come to a stop, and he's out of the car the second that he can safely open the door. 

By the time that _you_ get out of the car, the kid's gathered up about two-thirds of the bags, heading straight for the house. You watch him for a second, waiting long enough that he won't feel like you're trying to follow right behind him, then scoop up the rest of your purchases and head in after him.


	5. Chapter 5

**== > Dave: Avoid Jack.**

You intend to do exactly that. Since you...don't actually have the option of retreating into your room, you kind of just grab the laptop he gave you, huddle down behind the couch and start going down your list of pesterchum contacts. 

John's on, but you can't really handle the thought of pulling up your normal facade well enough to interact with him. Like, at all. Same with Rose, except more so; you don't think you could get more than three sentences in before she clocked how upset you are. Jade's not online, Karkat's...

Okay, yeah. Thank fuck. 

turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG]!

CG: *THERE* YOU ARE. I WAS GETTING WORRIED.

TG: aw dude why the hell would you do that

CG: BECAUSE YOU DISAPPEAR FOR DAYS SOMETIMES AND REFUSE TO TELL ME WHY, FUCKASS!    
CG: THAT'S PRETTY FUCKING WORRISOME TO ME AND I'D BET MY FUCKING SICKLES THAT YOU'D LOSE YOUR SHIT IF *I* TOOK OFF LIKE THAT, OKAY?

TG: you live on a murder world

CG: AND YOU LIVE WITH A GUY WHO TURNS UP SOME REALLY FUCKING SKETCHY RESULTS IF YOU SEARCH HIM ONLINE.    
CG: I'M SURROUNDED BY ADULT TROLLS WHO CAN KILL JUST ABOUT ANYTHING THAT MAKES THIS THE, QUOTE, "MURDER PLANET," UNQUOTE. YOU NEVER SAY ANYTHING ABOUT ANYONE OTHER THAN YOUR FUCKING BRO.   
CG: WHO IS ON THE FUCKING *LIST* OF HUMANS TO AVOID! FOR *TROLLS*! HE'S FUCKING DANGEROUS! 

TG: dude   
TG: hes my bro

CG: I DON'T SEE YOU TELLING ME I'M WRONG, STRIDER.    
CG: ...OR TELLING ME ANYTHING, ACTUALLY. YOU PROMISED ME AN EXPLANATION LAST NIGHT. 

TG: i said maybe 

CG: DAVE.

TG: cmon man

CG: NOPE. IF I'M GOING TO LISTEN TO YOUR INCESSANT BLATHERING ABOUT THE MOST IRRELEVANT THINGS YOU CAN COME UP WITH, YOU CAN DAMN WELL KEEP UP WITH THAT INCESSANT BLATHERING WHEN THE SUBJECT TURNS TO ONE THAT I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT.    
CG: TO QUOTE YOU AGAIN...WHAT'S UP?

TG: uh   
TG: im uh   
TG: not home 

CG: ...   
CG: OKAY, WELL. WE'RE GETTING SOMEWHERE, I GUESS.   
CG: WHERE ARE YOU, IF YOU'RE NOT HOME?

TG: with one of bros friends   
TG: well maybe not friends i guess  
TG: clients?  
TG: fuck man i dunno what the operative word here is  
TG: noir sells bro really fuckin expensive swords   
TG: i mean this time he traded them for some time with me but im gonna just count that as selling them right  
TG: like its still exchanging goods for money and or services received  
TG: not that im doing much servicing here  
TG: fuck i cant believe i just phrased it like that like im in a goddamn cut rate erotic novel   
TG: lock me up for smut crimes and throw away the key right  
TG: i plead guilty your honor just fuckin take me away and get me out of this hellhole

CG: STOP TALKING FOR A MINUTE.   
CG: I SEE YOU TYPING, ASSHOLE. SEND ME THAT AND THEN LET ME FINISH QUESTIONING YOU.

TG: shshyqoqoksmdhs ajj kkaoaksb akka 

CG: WHAT THE FUCK?

TG: look when you tell me to stop typing i start keysmashing whether i have anything to say or not okay

CG: YOU, ARE AN IDIOT.   
CG: SO YOUR BRO TRADED SOME SWORDS FOR...

TG: me   
TG: for a day and a half anyway   
TG: asshole didnt give me an actual timeline for when hed come get me   
TG: god thats fucking me up worse than anything else i guess

CG: OKAY, SO...WHY?

TG: why what

CG: I'M ALMOST ONE HUNDRED PERCENT SURE THAT YOU'RE PRETENDING TO BE STUPID RIGHT NOW IN AN EFFORT TO GET ME PISSED ENOUGH AT YOU THAT I'LL GET DISTRACTED WITH YELLING AT YOU FOR BEING AN IDIOT.

TG: is it working

CG: NO. WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO DO THAT? 

TG: ...  
TG: okay so   
TG: look  
TG: fuck

CG: DAVE? ARE YOU OKAY?

TG: no im not fucking okay   
TG: look dude this stays right here okay   
TG: you dont tell your dad or your bro or the fuckin authorities or anybody period because im pretty fucking sure thats the first thing youre gonna say   
TG: you promise me that or im logging off and not coming back until i cant handle not having you to talk to  
TG: which would fucking suck and id end up wanting to fucking die and i dont wanna do it  
TG: dont wanna talk about any of this either but youre not stupid you could figure it out  
TG: mostly because i cant keep my mouth shut and youd eventually put the shit ive said together with what bro puts on his public site and figure shit out   
TG: promise me youre not telling anyone

CG: WHY DO I NEED TO?

TG: please  
TG: please just cooperate karkat okay? please? cooperate or let me not tell you anything   
TG: i shouldnt tell you   
TG: you dont need to know and you dont want to know not really you really dont want to know trust me

CG: DAVE.

TG: fuck this is a bad idea

CG: DAVE, ON A SCALE OF ONE TO TEN, HOW BADLY ARE YOU PANICKING RIGHT NOW?

TG: really really badly

CG: THAT'S NOT A NUMERICAL ANSWER, BUT OKAY.   
CG: STOP TYPING FOR A MINUTE. BREATHE.    
CG: IF YOU REALLY NEED ME TO KEEP A SECRET, I CAN DO THAT. AT LEAST UNTIL I FIGURE OUT HOW THE FUCK TO HELP YOU INSTEAD.

TG: dude thats not an option

CG: DAVE, MY DAD HAS A FUCKTON OF MOIRAILS, WHICH MEANS I HAVE PSEUDOPARENTS WHO CAN PROBABLY LEVEL A FUCKING CITY IF THEY WORK TOGETHER. I THINK WE CAN HANDLE YOUR SHITTY BROTHER. 

TG: no

CG: WHY NOT?

TG: because  
TG: dude i gotta live with him and if he figures out i   
TG: talked to you   
TG: told you shit  
TG: bad  
TG: itd be bad okay   
TG: god i fucking hate this why do i have to be like this 

CG: DAVE, IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY.

TG: you dont fucking know that

CG: YES I FUCKING DO KNOW THAT.   
CG: LOOK. YOU DON'T HAVE TO GIVE ME DETAILS, ALRIGHT? IT'S PRETTY FUCKING OBVIOUS THAT EVERYTHING'S SHIT FOR YOU, RIGHT?    
CG: I'M GOING TO TALK TO GHB AND PSII.

TG: what no dont  
TG: why

CG: WHY WHAT, DAVE?   
CG: IS "BECAUSE I WANT TO FUCKING HELP YOU" NOT A GOOD ENOUGH ANSWER?

TG: neither of those guys is your dad

CG: I MEAN, I'M PLANNING ON TALKING TO DAD TOO.

TG: fuck

CG: I KNOW YOU DON'T WANT ME TO TALK TO ANYBODY, BUT CAN YOU TELL ME THAT YOU DON'T NEED OUT OF THERE? AND NOT FUCKING LIE, DOING IT?

TG: i can say ill fuckin survive 

CG: BZZZT.    
CG: YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS? THAT'S MY BULLSHIT METER. IT'S GOING OFF BECAUSE YOU'RE SO FUCKING FULL OF IT.

TG: what i said was true dude

CG: YEAH, AND I PROBABLY WOULD'VE SURVIVED IF DUALSCAR HADN'T PICKED ME UP AFTER MY LUSUS DIED.    
CG: THAT'S NOT FUCKING SAYING I'D BE OKAY. I PROBABLY *WOULDN'T* BE OKAY NOW, IF DAD HADN'T ENDED UP WITH ME, AND THAT'S THE FUCKING TRUTH.   
CG: AND DAVE, YOU'RE NOT OKAY NOW, AND I'M SCARED SHIT'S GOING TO GET WORSE IF NOBODY DOES SHIT, AND YOU DON'T HAVE ANYBODY ON EARTH TO DO SOMETHING.

TG: there isnt anything you can do thats gonna fix shit man   
TG: this aint your fault and theres nothing you can do anyway   
TG: youre a kid   
TG: on another planet

CG: I'M A KID, ON ANOTHER PLANET, WHO IS ABOUT TO FUCKING SCREAM UNTIL HIS DAD'S MOIRAIL BELIEVES ME THAT IT'S TIME TO DO SHIT.   
CG: "DOING SHIT" COULD CONCEIVABLY MEAN SHOWING UP AND BEATING YOUR FUCKING BROTHER INTO AN INSENSATE PUDDLE, THEN CLAIMING DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY. OR JUST CAUSE. OR SOMETHING.   
CG: REDGLARE CAN HANDLE HOW TO NOT GET ARRESTED PERMANENTLY FOR THAT.

TG: oh god dude you cant do that thats not how that works

CG: THEN WE WON'T DO THAT, SPECIFICALLY.   
CG: DO YOU TRUST ME?

TG: yes i fucking trust you idiot  
TG: wouldnt be having this conversation if i didnt

CG: GOOD.   
CG: DAD AND PSII ARE OFFPLANET. THEY SHOULD GET BACK IN LIKE, A COUPLE DAYS. WHEN THEY DO, I'M MAKING THEM AND GHB AND MAYBE REDGLARE SIT DOWN AND FUCKING LISTEN TO ME.   
CG: OKAY?   
CG: DAVE?

TG: i   
TG: yeah

CG: ARE YOU SCARED?

TG: yes im fucking scared dumbass   
TG: if anything actually comes of this shit its gonna blow up and were all gonna end up fucked in so many ways and i can handle being fucked in just about any way but you need to not get in trouble over me

CG: IT'S NOT GOING TO BLOW UP!

TG: the only way thats gonna be true is if your dad tells you that this is a stupid idea

CG: WHICH HE WON'T! 

TG: oh my fucking god then hes not as smart as  
TG: shit gotta go

turntechGodhead disconnected!

CG: DAVE, WAIT   
CG: FUCK! 

* * *

**== > Jack: Make sure the kid eats.**

You're pretty sure that, left to himself, Dave would probably just stay out of sight for the foreseeable future. Especially since at a cursory glance, he doesn't even seem to be in the room at all. 

Upon closer examination, though, he must be holed up behind the couch; you can see the cord to the laptop leading back there. Okay then. 

"Hey, kid. Dave." 

He makes a stifled noise as you say his name; when you step around to where you can actually see him, he's just shutting the laptop, not-quite-slamming it with a motion that's obviously calculated to be quick but also as quiet as possible. 

His shades are off; you get another look at those bright red eyes and the way they're panic-wide, how Dave's face is noticeably red like he's been rubbing at his eyes (rubbing them dry?) before he swears under his breath and snatches up his shades again, fumbling them onto his face. 

Damn, he's scared, isn't he? 

"You okay?" you ask him, and receive a silent nod as an answer. Which is almost certainly not an accurate answer. Wait, shit. "That shithead message you?" Strider did message _you_ , after all. Gave you a time to come pick the papers up, early tomorrow morning. 

Dave's face goes even more blank than usual for a second; then he scowls. "Bro?" 

"Yeah." 

"Don't call him that." 

You really want to make an argument for why you should call him worse. Instead, you nod slightly. "Alright. Did he text you, though?" _That why you look goddamn terrified?_

"Nah. Just texting a friend, is all. Checking my email." Dave shrugs, hunching down almost imperceptibly as he sets the laptop aside and looks up at you. "Did you want—" 

"Just to tell you I'll be in the armory if you need me. Food's on the table in the kitchen; you oughta eat some of it." You almost tell him he _needs_ to eat some of it, but you feel like that wording would be a hell of a lot less effective. "The stuff of yours I ended up bringing in's in the empty room next to the bathroom. You can put the rest in there out of the way if you want." 

(That's actually the room you're planning on adding furniture and whatever to make _his_ room, assuming that you either end up staying here or come back with him after you take him to talk to D Strider. But if you tell Dave that now, odds are he'll panic and text the shithead, convince him to call off the deal and take him back. Not a good scenario; it'd probably end with stabbing and body disposal.) 

The kid just stares up at you for a minute, then nods. Just slightly. 

Since you're pretty sure he isn't going to move any more than that until you leave him alone, that's what you do. You turn your back on Dave, head to the other side of the house to unwind the best way you know how—maintaining some fraction of your collection of bladed weapons.


	6. Chapter 6

**== > Jack: Lose track of time, apparently.**

Yeah, that does happen sometimes. You come in here to check and clean a handful of swords and knives, and the next thing you know it's eight hours later and you've gone through six cases of blades. 

Today's session ends up only being about half that, though. Mostly because Paint starts texting you three hours in, letting you know that she's been looking up the kid's relatives. Actually, she sends you three paragraphs of why you're not under any circumstances allowed to let him go back to the shithead. With references. And occasional misspellings, which is a good indicator that your lovely lady is absolutely _furious,_ which means you have to spend twenty minutes or so attempting to soothe her over text. 

She demands promises on what'll happen to Dave, and you willingly give them to her—yes, you've already started events in motion that'll make sure he can stay with you. No, he doesn't actually know about those events yet. No, you will _not_ go in there right this instant and tell him about them; it's safer for him if you don't do that. Removes the possibility of him calling the shithead and begging to come back to where he thinks of as home. _Who_ he thinks of as home. 

Convincing her that Dave probably would do that, that he'd refuse to leave his Bro, is the next thing to impossible. You resist the urge to stab the wall a couple times, as you try to explain to Paint that humans who've been stuck in this kind of situation really don't think logically at all, when it comes to the person who fucked them up. Dave's terrified of the shithead, on a level that you wouldn't even hesitate to call _instinctual_ —but how much the kid thinks he loves his Bro is just as automatic. Or maybe it's that he thinks he should love the shithead. Or maybe the kid's defensive protection of him is something else, some strange symptom of abuse that doesn't make all that much sense to you but would to anyone who understood how human minds work. 

You have no idea. 

Paint still wants you to tell the kid he's going to be safe now, and in the end you promise to tell him in the morning, just so she'll stop arguing and tell you whatever she found out about the rest of his family. 

It can be summed up in two words: not much. 

The shithead has a brother. D Strider. Like Dave said, that seems to actually be his name, not a shortened form of something else. D has either one or two kids, depending on which records you look at; the newer ones list twin boys, Hal and Dirk, but the ones from more than ten years back, before he moved to Alternia, suggest that he had just Dirk, no mention of any twin. 

Huh. That's somewhat weird. Not really relevant, though. 

The guy's not exactly low-profile, especially on social media. He's in a relationship with a troll—a seadweller who looks familiar to you; you're pretty sure the guy had more than a little to do with the reordering of the Alternian empire, how it became something that can't exactly be _called_ an empire anymore—and Paint sends you pictures of the two adults and four kids, plus an bunch of images of D with a variety of other kids, spread out through pretty much the whole hemospectrum. 

You spend a while studying those pictures. The kids look fine, happy, normal, safe. There's exceptions, of course—that one goldblood doesn't seem to have a setting other than _pissed_ in recent photos, for example—but then again, he's a teenager. That's all kind of expected. 

Add the photo evidence to the fact that most trolls respond not at all well to kids being hurt, and you're fairly confident that D Strider is a decent child-guardian. Which means...

Time to possibly relocate. Eventually. Getting the kid offplanet might be a hassle; it really depends. Deal with that when you get to it...

Fuck, when did it get this late? 

You tell Paint to go get some sleep, turn your phone off, and head over to check on the kid before you follow your own advice. If he's awake, you intend to suggest that he gets some sleep, but you're probably not going to push it. Probably. 

Dave's out, though, or at least seems to be when you step into the room to check on him. You guess he could just be good at feigning sleep, though. 

Hopefully it's the former option.

* * *

**== > Dave: Have a pretty fucking rough night.**

Not being able to sleep ain't exactly a new thing for you. Bro's got a thing for slipping into your room, moving shit and leaving smuppets and creepy-ass things around if you don't wake the fuck up and tell him to get out. That plus the...other shit that happens sometimes at night, it's ended up making it so you don't sleep easy, ever. Which is probably what he was going for. 

Fuck, that sounded bad. 

He just. Wants you to be ready for shit. Something like that. 

Anyway. 

Tonight is really fucking bad. You're fucked up from the convo with Karkat, and from the knowledge that you're going back home tomorrow. The fact that tonight is Noir's last night to change his mind about what he wants from you ain't helping either. 

You can't sleep. 

You need to sleep. 

You finally fall asleep (kind of, probably, it doesn't feel like sleeping but that probably just means you're dreaming you're awake and unable to sleep in the dream) and stay that way for probably not very long, before some quiet sound jerks you wide awake again. Even without moving, you can hear a breathing pattern other than your own, not measured out to sound like someone sleeping. 

Noir. Fuck. 

You're not going to move. Maybe he'll think you're still asleep. It probably won't _stop_ him, but it'll. Give you another fucking minute, before he tries to wake you up. 

It's kind of pathetic, isn't it? That you count a minute's delay as some kind of victory? Never mind that you know that you're going to immediately give him everything he wants of you, the second that he lets you know what it is. 

You don't move. You breathe, slow and even and apparently-asleep, and wait for Jack Noir to make a move. 

Eventually he does.

Weirdly, that move is to walk back out of the room. After a second, you hear a door open and shut, quiet but just barely within earshot. 

_...what? What the fuck?_

You don't understand. You don't fucking understand. He wouldn't give up that easy. People don't fuckin' do that, not really. Not when they want something from you. Not when they fucking _paid_ for it. Paid for _you._

Which means there is definitely another shoe to drop. God fucking damn it. 

You curl up around the blanket, and try to ignore the way the stress is tying your stomach into painful, nauseous knots. You can handle this, for just a little longer...

* * *

**== > Jack: Oh, fuck. **

You go from asleep to on your feet with the knife you keep next to your bed in your hand in probably under three seconds, which is not really enough time for your mind to process exactly _why_ you're awake. You're guessing it's some sound that woke you; this actually happens more often than it probably should. Carapacians form survival instincts easily, and have almost no ability to get rid of those habits without extensive therapy. 

Eh, you don't really want to get rid of your ability to wake up at small stimuli. It's a plus in most situations; at worst it's mildly annoying, and it's actually saved your life enough to make up for aforementioned annoyance. 

The lights in the rest of the house seem to still be out, you discover when you leave your room. Still, you figure you might as well go check on Dave. 

_Try_ to check on Dave, anyway. The couch is still folded out into a bed, but the blankets are dragged off across the floor, and the kid's gone. 

You do the sensible thing: panic. For a minute, anyway. Then you do the even _more_ sensible thing, and follow the muffled sounds you're hearing to their source, the bathroom.

The lights are off, but when you flick them on you find Dave hunched over by the toilet, head down and shoulders shaking like he's trying very fucking hard to either not make any sound or to not continue throwing up. Possibly both. 

"Fuck, kid." He flinches despite the fact that you keep your tone low and calm, hard enough that it's obvious even with how much he's already shaking. "What happened?" 

" _Nothing._ Fuck off, I'm—I'm—" 

You're guessing he was going to to tell you he's fine, but instead of finishing his sentence Dave hesitates for a second, makes a sick, dismayed sound, and starts retching into the toilet again. He's _still_ trying to be quiet about it, you can tell, and you have to wince. 

"Hold up a minute," you tell him. Predictably at this point, Dave does not react to that at all, and you can't really blame him. You head back to the kitchen, retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge, and come back into the bathroom. 

Dave's already turned the light back off. You resist the temptation to turn it on again, and instead step just inside the room, setting the bottle on the counter by the sink. "Dave—" 

"Just go _away._ " Ouch. There's definitely a pleading note in that, a little bit desperate and a little bit ashamed. "I'll be okay, I'll be fuckin' _fine,_ just—just fuck off, dude." 

Damn. There's two choices here: stick around, which seems like the normal human adult thing to do— it'd what you'd do if he was one hundred percent your kid and be knew it, you think—or leave him alone, which may not be the right thing to do but _is_ what the kid wants. 

"There's some water for you on the counter," you tell him. 

You get a minute or so of silence back. Then, "...okay. Thanks." 

"You know which room's mine." You are absolutely sure that he won't actually come to you unless he really is dying. Possibly not even then. "Shout if you decide you need me, alright?" 

"Yeah. Sure." He exhales, a shaky breath-noise that sounds like an attempt to exert control over his uncooperative body, and you hear him shift a little in the darkness. "You going?" 

"Yeah, I'm going." And you step out of the doorway, pull the door almost closed behind you, and retreat back towards your room again. 

You hear him throwing up again before you get halfway down the hall. 

Poor kid.


	7. Chapter 7

**== > Dave: Read the letter.**

You wake up, and for something more than a minute you have no idea where you are. Lying on something hard, that much is obvious; if you didn't have something soft and warm draped over you, you'd just assume you got your dumb ass knocked out in one of the strifes on the roof with Bro. That's the most obvious assumption, really. 

But nope. He wouldn't give you a blanket, if that's what happened. Well, maybe he'd cover you up if he killed you. Isn't that a thing? Covering up corpses? You think it's a thing. Not really sure why, though. 

The blanket is really fuckin' soft, though. You curl up a little tighter around it, pull it in to rub your face against it like a cat, and wonder if you can get away with just not opening your eyes for another couple hours. 

...probably not. Noir's probably already up, waiting for you to get up off the bathroom floor (oh yeah, _that's_ where you are, isn't it?) and get your ass in the kitchen so he can take you back home.

You sigh at the not-so-welcome thought of home, and (reluctantly) open your eyes.

That does not do much. It's pretty dark in here, after all. 

The lightswitch is within arm's reach if you sit up, though, so you don't actually have to get to your feet to get the light on. Which is kind of nice. Like, of all the weird places you've ended up sleeping, this is one of the better ones; not dangerous, comfortable-ish, nice and clean...

Why the fuck are you thinking about the bathroom in Jack Noir's house this way. What the actual entire fuck is wrong with you. 

You huff quietly at yourself, pulling the dark green blanket he's covered you up with up around your shoulders like a cape. Damn, you really must've passed out hard last night, after you finally managed to stop puking; you didn't hear Noir come in to put that blanket on you at all. 

You wonder if he tried to wake you up. If you fucked up, just by being asleep. 

Then you shove all coherent thoughts out of your head, and get your feet underneath yourself so you can stand up. Incidentally, that dislodges a folded piece of paper that was apparently on the blanket you're wrapped in; the flash of white catches your eye as it hits the floor. 

Okay, you can hang out down here for a minute longer. Might as well check that out, right?

> _Dave—_  
>  _I'm meeting ~~the shithead~~ your bro this morning. He's got some papers for me to sign. Mostly about you. Custody forms. He said it's going to be a couple hours because apparently you gotta get this kind of shit witnessed for it to be legal. _  
>  _Not sure if you figured out yet that you're not going back to the apartment. You're staying here, least until I find out if ~~your uncle~~ D plans on trying to get custody instead. Cross that bridge later. You do get a say in that though. Whether you want to go to him or stay with me. Might be a couple months until it's actually an issue. Depends on whether the shithead has a valid passport for you or not. _  
>  _I'd be happy with you staying here for good. Staying with me for good. It's still your choice._  
>  _Should be back by noon. Maybe a bit later. Not really sure. There's food in the kitchen and money by the TV in the living room if you want to order pizza or something._  
>  _—Jack_

You read it. You read it again, because you are one hundred percent sure that you didn't read it right the first time. And again.

By the end of the fourth readthrough, you're fuckin' hyperventilating. 

Why? Why the fuck is he doing this? Why would he go to all this trouble to get custody of you from Bro, tell you he's planning on taking you to see D, be this _nice_ to you and not even _try_ to get anything from you in return? Not even try to fuck you? 

You don't get it. You don't get it. You don't—

Okay, fuck, you're getting dizzy. That doesn't stop you from staggering to your feet, though. Not really. You clutch at the blanket around your shoulders, try not to crumple the note in your other hand, and stumble out of the bathroom to go get your laptop and get someone (anyone else, anyone who's got some distance from this situation, anyone who can listen to you and not _panic_ so hard they can't breathe) to give you input on this.

* * *

_Fuck._

Karkat's not online. He's the one you really want, too, the one who can actually make shit better even when it's unfixable. Fuck! 

You take a shaky breath, scroll up your contact list a little further, and fix on a handle you haven't clicked on for years. Maybe it's because it's the first one alphabetically, maybe it's because it's bright fucking red, but you click on Hal's chumhandle before you really think about what you're doing. 

turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering artificialIntellect [AI]!

AI: ...  
AI: ......  
AI: I'm guessing this was an accidental connection.

TG: no it wasnt im just  
TG: fuck  
TG: im sorry man  
TG: shits going down on my end hal and i got some problems okay 

AI: You're fine, Dave. I mean, you obviously _aren't,_ but you haven't actually done anything worth apologizing for.   
AI: That I know of.  
AI: What's going on, how can I fix it, and are you okay?

TG: i  
TG: god fucking shit damn i cant do this

AI: ...uh.  
AI: Let's just wipe out two of those questions and start with, are you okay?

TG: yes  
TG: no

AI: That's illuminating. And I don't mean that in a sarcastic way.   
AI: Talk to me.

TG: i cant   
TG: dude you dont get it im sorry i couldnt talk about it with karkat and i cant talk about it with you or fucking anybody i just cant   
TG: fuck noirs talking with bro right now making the deal with him so i dont go back so i should be able to tell you and not have to worry about the goddamn consequences but i cant

AI: Dave, I have no idea what's going on, but I think you need to talk to D.

TG: no

AI: Do you want me to do it? 

TG: no

AI: Can you seriously tell me you're not in danger right now? Because I'm pretty fucking sure that you are, and as much as I'd love to say that I can fix whatever needs fixing, I am cognizant of the fact that I'm two years older than you, which does not put me in a technically powerful position.  
AI: Bro, on the other hand, _is_ in a powerful position. Over you, specifically. 

TG: yeah  
TG: thats  
TG: he

AI: Give me a minute.

artificialIntellect added timaeusTestified [TT] to the chat!

TT: Dave?   
TT: Okay, it's been a while. What's the occasion?

AI: Don't push him too much, bro. I'll be back in maybe ten minutes.  
AI: However long it takes to do a checkthrough of you-know-who's systems and electronics.

TG: dude no fuck you cant do that he keeps his shit behind so many custom firewalls hes gonna know what youre doing way before you get anywhere

AI: Thanks for the heads-up. I'll be careful.

TT: You'd better. 

artificialIntellect disconnected!

TG: fuck   
TG: dirk you gotta make him quit hes gonna get hurt

TT: Hal knows what he's doing significantly better than I do, Dave.   
TT: Also, I kind of can't make him quit. D could, maybe, but I'm pretty sure Hal's fine.  
TT: What's going on?

TG: fuck  
TG: i uh  
TG: kind of got  
TG: god i dont want to say sold but thats what he did and maybe its good or bad i dont know dirk okay

TT: Sold.  
TT: Dave, what the hell?

TG: it sounds bad i know it sounds bad but noirs not horrible and this isnt bad   
TG: it feels awful but fuck man he hasnt touched me which is more than i can say for bro  
TG: thats wrong i shouldnt say that  
TG: its true and hes better than bro but its wrong

TT: All right, this isn't really helping me out with figuring out what's going on.  
TT: Dave, do I need to get the cops or someone to step in?

TG: please fucking dont   
TG: not right this second okay

artificialIntellect joined the chat!

AI: I need the name of the guy you're with right now.

TG: no

TT: Hal, mind cluing me in, maybe?

AI: I'm about to get D's brother arrested for child pornography, prostitution, rape, child abuse, and a fuckton of other shit. Dave said the guy who...bought him...is an improvement, so I'm going to do a little creative data rearrangement, make sure he's listed as the next of kin.  
AI: Unless you want me to sit on my hands for the two weeks it'd take to get from here to Earth.

TG: dont do it period  
TG: dirk tell him 

TT: I'm with Hal on this.  
TT: Bro did that shit to you? Why didn't you tell us?

TG: because  
TG: just because okay? because its him and i couldnt tell you and i shouldnt tell you now you shouldnt know  
TG: this is a fucking clusterfuck and i fucked up and this is my fault 

AI: None of this is your fault. _None._ Do you understand that?  
AI: And no, Dirk, we're not even starting on the assignation of blame right now, stop fucking typing.   
AI: I need the guy's name, Dave.

TG: no   
TG: you cant drag him into this shit 

AI: I'm not planning on it, so long as you tell me the truth on if he does anything like D's brother did. 

TG: fuck  
TG: i  
TG: dont think he will  
TG: but you cant do it now

TT: Because?

TG: jacks with bro right now

AI: Ah. Okay. I'll make sure there isn't a record of that, then.   
AI: Jack?

TG: ...  
TG: jack noir

TT: ...why do I know that name?

AI: Not sure, but it sounds familiar to me too.   
AI: Not in a bad way, don't worry. I'm going to run some background checks on him, though. Make sure there isn't anything that suggests he's as much of a fuck as our relative apparently is.  
AI: God, D's...not going to take this well.

TG: dont tell him

TT: Bad plan.

TG: he doesnt talk to bro anyway you know he doesnt   
TG: unless bro calls him for legal shit or something he doesnt have to know

TT: He has to find out eventually, Dave. And I'm pretty sure that he'd want to know now.   
TT: D cares about you. We all do. You're our bro, you know that.

TG: im your cousin dude

AI: Technically correct, but I think Dirk's going with an alternate definition, somewhat synonymous with "close family." Which you emphatically qualify for.  
AI: I'm going to put off setting things in motion for twenty-four hours. You need to tell Noir that I'm going to take legal action, okay?   
AI: Unless I fuck everything up, both you and he should be completely out of the loop on this. There's enough incriminating shit to get him put away, even if I delete all the videos that feature you.

TG: you can do that?

AI: Sending files to data hell is one of my specialities.  
AI: Retrieving them is one of Dirk's, but I sincerely doubt anyone else could.

TG: i dont   
TG: guys i dont want them to get retrieved  
TG: fuck i wish you hadnt gone through bros shit

TT: Why, because you think that's going to change something?   
TT: Because it's not. Not about you, anyway. 

AI: It changes shit about Bro, though. I've already stealth-blocked his social media accounts from interacting with any of ours. He shouldn't be able to tell, but any messages he sends won't get through.  
AI: And yes. That includes you, Dave.  
AI: He can't harass you on the electronic front, at least.

TT: From what I can dig up about Noir, I don't think he'll be harassing you on the physical front either.  
TT: You remember those guys Darkleer called in when Handmaid almost got killed, Hal?

AI: _Ah._  
AI: Yeah. Dave, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you got phenomenally lucky here; Noir's dangerous, but only in very specific circumstances.

TG: you know i think i figured out hes an improvement on my own thanks

AI: You're getting snarky. You must be calming down a bit.

TG: kind of  
TG: as long as i dont think about  
TG: well anything

AI: Alright then, let's give you a distraction.

artificialIntellect sent a game invitation! 

TG: okay rad thanks   
TG: like really thank you 

AI: Hey, what else is family for?

turntechGodhead disconnected!

AI: Come on, Dirk. You get to come assist in the distraction too.  
AI: And no. You won't find anything if you go poking through that asshole's mainframe. I already locked the files to all remote viewing.

TT: You know me too well.

AI: I know that you'd go blame yourself for everything somehow.   
AI: Not fun. Now come on.

artificialIntellect disconnected!

timaeusTestified disconnected! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure how to get rid of the line in front of the block indent section 
> 
> yikes


	8. Chapter 8

**== > Jack: Let him know he's _your_ kid.**

The house is dead quiet when you get back, which isn't all that surprising. Even if you kind of expected the silence, it's mildly worrying, though. Probably shouldn't be.

Dave is, of course, curled up on the couch with the laptop you gave him, a pair of headphones that you vaguely remember being one of the purchases from yesterday settled firmly over his ears. You're mildly amused to see that he's still wrapped up in the blanket you put on him last night, wearing it like a cape; he hasn't gotten dressed at all, has he? 

Not that you blame him. 

The kid doesn't seem to notice you at all, though. Not until you actually step up right in front of him, pause for a second to dig in one of your coat's pockets to extricate the manila envelope you've acquired as a result of today's dealings. 

It's probably that movement that gets his attention, really. Whether it is or it ain't, Dave's eyes flick up to you and then go wide, and he pushes the laptop aside and pulls his headphones down. "Uh—hey." 

"Hey yourself, kid." Yeah, there's the envelope. You pull the thick sheaf of papers inside halfway out, carefully sort through them until you find the ones you want Dave to see. The ones with your name on them. "Here—you might want to see these." 

He flinches a little, when you hold the papers out, but after an infinitesimal hesitation he does take them. 

You intend to give him a couple minutes to read through them, but that plan goes right out the window when you notice that his hands are shaking. 

"Fuck. Dave?" Your gut reaction is to sit down next to him, put a hand on his shoulder; you end up _cautiously_ doing the first, and not doing the second at all. Not just yet. "Kid, you okay?" 

"That's, uh." Dave sighs, shakily, and passes the papers back without looking at you, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. "Y'know, I didn't—fuck, Jack, I halfway didn't expect you were gonna be the one to come back. Thought Bro would just come pick me up, I—" 

"Nope." You can't blame him for that, though. For one thing, you were gone a hell of a lot longer than you said you'd be.

"Yeah, I get that _now_. I think." The kid sniffles, still rubbing at his eyes as he leans just a bit closer to you. Not enough to touch. Just enough to justify you (carefully) putting an arm around his shoulders. "Fuck, I can't believe I got an alien dad now." 

"You and me both, kid. This can go on the list of the weirdest ways I've solved a problem in my life." 

He actually laughs at that, very quietly. "Tell me what else is on that list?" 

"Eh. Mostly creative ways to deal with shit by stabbing people." 

This time it's almost a giggle, and he _does_ lean against you, relaxing just a bit. "Please tell me you didn't stab Bro." 

"Thought about it." If there'd been a chance to perforate that shithead without definitely getting caught, you would've done it, no hesitations. "Ended up deciding against getting arrested today." 

"...good plan." Dave glances over at his laptop, then pulls away from the contact with you, pulling it back into his lap. You kind of suspect it's an excuse to not look at you, as he starts typing and talking at the same time. "Uh. Speaking of getting arrested—" 

"See, that's a phrase that usually means trouble for somebody." 

"Yeah, but not for you right now, I swear." Dave hesitates, blinking down at the screen like there's a script there that he just needs to translate to know what to say to you. "I, uh. Remember how you asked about D?" 

After a moment's pause you decide that the kid wants input before he continues, and nod. Even though he's not looking at you, he must pick up the movement in his peripheral vision, because that's enough to coax a few more sentences out of him. 

"I kind of talked to his kids. Hal and Dirk. Dunno _why_ I picked them to panic to, other'n the fact that I _was_ panicking and, y'know, we were talking about them? Coulda gone to D, I guess, but he's. Y'know." 

"An adult." You offer that hypothesis because Dave's stalled, and shows no signs of being able to get to the point you know he's trying to make. 

"Yeah. 's stupid that that's a _negative_ point for me, I know—" 

"I wouldn't call it that. Your judgement's a little screwy, maybe, but it makes sense for your info, right?" 

The kid glances up at you, for just a second, and you're not sure if that look is surprise or gratitude. Kind of looks like both, in the brief second you have to check it out before he looks back down. "Okay, I can roll with calling it screwy judgement. But, uh...I kind of. I told them. About Bro. And, y'know, you, kind of. Dirk actually knew who you were, or he found out pretty fuckin' quick..." 

"I'm not surprised. Like I said, I spent a lot of time on Alternia too." 

"They said you were dangerous." 

"Yeah?" You are not that surprised. You _are_ dangerous, after all; if the kids knew who you were, they pretty much had to know that. 

"They also said you were better than Bro—" 

"Pretty sure just about anybody would be an improvement on that shithead, kid." 

He doesn't tell you not to call him that. Just nods a bit, and keeps talking. "—and that I was lucky. 'cause it was you." 

_Now_ Dave does look up at you, and he doesn't look back down after brief eye contact this time. This time he holds it, eyes just barely flicking to the side every few seconds and coming right back, as steady as he can manage. 

And you meet his gaze. 

"What about you?" you ask him. "What do you think?" 

His mouth twists up a little. "I kinda think you're too fuckin' good to be true." 

_Damn._ "Yeah?" 

"I said _kinda_." 

"I plan on doing everything I said I'd do for you, kid. Getting you clear from that shithead was step one." Step two is probable either taking him to D, or getting him in some kind of therapy. Depends on whether the passport and shit in the envelope is current or not. 

"Fuck, I'm glad one of us has shit planned out then." The kid sighs, looking down at his laptop again. "Hal says to tell you he can expedite any documents you need to get me offplanet, when you wanna do that. And that he's calling the feds down on Bro sometime tomorrow, unless you need him to move it back." 

The idea of any kind of police getting anywhere near you makes you wince, slightly. But unless you're planning on going back and stabbing the shithead, he might as well get what's coming to him from the legal system. But... "Might get a bit problematic, seeing as how I've got his kid and had a meeting with him today." 

Surprisingly, Dave shakes his head. "Hal's gonna take care of that. Get rid of any records. I told you, he knows you're an improvement; he's not gonna get me taken away from you now." 

...huh. You thought those twins were somewhere around sixteen or seventeen; can they really manipulate data that well, from half a galaxy away? 

Well. You might as well wait and see. Beats paying somebody to tip off the cops to the shithead's business practices yourself, right? 

Right. 

"Sounds good, then." 

The kid nods, types a couple more lines, then shuts his laptop. "...awesome." 

"Mhm. Did you eat anything while I was gone?" 

He shrugs a bit; if you had to guess the expression that flashes across his face might be shame. "Uh...no."

While you somewhat understand why he wouldn't eat—he didn't get dressed either, after all, and you're willing to bet that this was more a case of inability rather than unwillingness—that's still something that needs to be rectified. As in, now. 

You get to your feet; Dave takes your hand, when you offer it to him, and lets you pull him to his feet. 

"C'mon, kid. Let's get us both some food."


	9. Chapter 9

**== > Dave: Skip ahead like, two weeks. **

Noir is going to take you to fucking _Alternia._ Like, seriously, you're going to get off the planet way before your bro actually ends up in court. 

Which he will. Hal's been giving you updates on that whole situation, albeit with significant protest. He says you need to not obsess over the shithead—dammit, _no_ , you still don't dare think of him like that, thinking of him like that kicks your heart rate up until you can feel it pounding rabbit-fast in your ears—you need to not obsess over Bro, just stop stressing and let it go. 

Yeah. No. Can't actually do that. 

So Hal keeps you updated and you _don't_ hunt out news of your bro yourself. It works. 

Speaking of updates, you're still trying to fumble through telling Karkat the kind of shit Bro put you through. It's...admitting to that shit is _hard,_ even to the guy you trust more than anyone. Especially when you know the kind of stunned horrified reaction he has every time you manage to spit out any kind of detail about Bro's shit. 

God, it makes you feel guilty. Makes you worry that you're...exaggerating, or something. Overstating the impact of Bro's—of what's happened in your life so far. That you're making it seem worse than it really is.

Was.

You don't know. 

It's hard. Talking about shit is hard. 

You haven't even managed to tell Karkat that you're coming to Alternia, either. Fuck, if you hadn't needed to talk to Hal about getting forged(?) permits for the exotic swords Noir wants to bring, you wouldn't've told your him or Dirk about it either. Part of the problem is that you don't totally believe it yourself; a good-sized chunk of your brain is flatly insisting that of _course_ you won't be going anywhere. You haven't been out of Texas in your life, barely ever left Houston, there's no way Noir's going to load you up in a spaceship and take you somewhere that's the epitome of Somewhere Else.

It's kinda funny. Even as you're packing shit to get loaded onto the ship, you don't believe this is happening. 

Habit is one hell of a drug. Or maybe more like an addiction; kicking it just ain't easy. 

But see, there's another one of your habits—an almost-conscious one, the fuckin' learned survival instinct your bro taught you and you might never shake off. You pretty much do what you're told. Especially when it's something like this, something you want to happen. 

So you pack up your shit, and you try to believe.

* * *

**== > Jack: Take care of those loose ends.**

Eh. It's not like there's a lot of them. You've done this before, picked up and left a place you're pretty well settled in. Not usually with another person in tow, but it's not like Dave's much of a problem. 

Even after almost a month, he looks at you like he doesn't believe you're going to follow through on anything you say. (Which you understand.) He's had a couple meltdowns, most of them almost completely contained to his room, with only minor damage to himself, or anything else. 

Both times, the kid was more upset about the things he broke (a lightbulb shattered by a thrown book the first time, some damage to the wall from where he made a decent attempt to put his fist through it the second) than what he did to himself (first shards of glass stuck in his arm, which you had to very patiently talk him into letting you take care of, and then scraped-up knuckles.) The fact that you just shrugged off the damage in favor of fixing his injuries didn't seem to help, oddly enough, but you're not all that sure how else to handle it. Letting him handle it himself ain't exactly an option, after all. 

...yeah, you're putting "finding a therapist" at the top of the priority list, right after you find that D Strider. Which shouldn't be a problem, since Dave's said he's been talking to the guy's kids. The only question is whether you're going to end up getting punched somewhere in here. You can't really think of a reason why you would, but human instinct is often to punch something during emotional stress. (See, _Dave trying to put his fist through the wall and damaging himself worse than the house._ ) 

Eh. You can take it. Anyway, even after you leave this planet you'll have not quite two weeks before you get to the next one, so that's a while off yet.

* * *

**== > Dave: Oh, god.**

It still doesn't feel real. 

You're looking in a direction that is, technically, _down_ , but your senses tell you is up. It's got to be down though, because the—the _earth_ is hanging there, blue and green and white in the white-speckled blackness. 

Fuck. _Fuck._ That's—

"You alright, kid?" 

For once, you don't jump when Jack touches your shoulder, mostly because you're too consumed with staring up at the planet you belong on. From a little tin can in the middle of nothing...okay, yeah, the panic's creeping in around the edges of the awe now. Well, a little. It's manageable. 

Probably. 

Shit, Jack probably wants an answer. " 'm fine. Just, y'know. Fuck." Yeah, great job Dave. Really fuckin' articulate.

He laughs, though, glancing up for a second before gently nudging you until _you_ quit looking. "Most people say that, I think. Or something like it. Not even just the first time, either; some of you never get over seeing things from here." 

" _Us,_ as in humans." Damn, you want to look up again. 

"Eh. And trolls. Not so much cherubs; they're meant to travel the space between stars at some point in their life. But most other species can't keep their eyes off their worlds once they're off them." 

As he says that, you realize you're looking up and out again. God, the stars are bright as hell, so much steadier than you expected. 

"Where the fuck's the moon?" Okay, that's probably a stupid question. That you asked out loud. Damn. 

Amazingly, Jack answers it anyway. "Either in earth eclipse or on the other side of us. Probably the second one; we'd've cleared the gravity well enough to shift down, if it was out of range." 

"Shift down—shifting like hyperspace? How the hell is that _down_?" Actually, you have a better question. "Wait, how can you tell if we're out of the gravity well?" 

Jack shrugs. "Experience. And evolution." 

...huh. 

You're going to have to pursue that later. 

"Dave?" 

"Yeah." 

"You probably want to come on out of here before the actual shift. Feeling it for the first time doesn't always agree with humans, and seeing it too ain't exactly going to help." 

Fuck. You don't really want to walk away from this, but...

Yeah. If he says it's a bad idea to see that happen, you believe him.

* * *

**== > Jack: Keep an eye on the kid. **

Even though he's with you in the shared section of the cabin the two of you have been assigned—one with no way to see that the universe outside's gone from black with tiny spangled stars, to something like a smashed handful of melted green crayons—you can tell that Dave knows it happened. He's cleaning his shades off with the bottom of his shirt when you feel the shift in the center of your chest; you look over at him and see that he's gone completely still and stiff, eyes wide and pupils dilated as his body tries to process what the _fuck_ just happened. 

Huh. Not everyone can register that. Especially not humans. 

His mouth moves silently for a second before he actually inhaled enough to form words. Even when he manages to get a couple out, they're pretty quiet. 

"...what the _fuck_?" 

Alright, so you kind of expected that reaction. Since Dave's so obviously unnerved, you resist the urge to grin, and instead step over to catch his shades as his grip on them loosens. "The downshift. Kinda surprised you can sense it this well—" 

"How the _hell_ could I not?" 

"Beats me, kid, but a lot of humans can't." You offer him the shades, waiting patiently for him to figure out he should take them. "You could get a job as a tech on one of these, with a talent like that." 

To your surprise Dave shudders at that idea, shaking his head emphatically as he grabs his shades away from you and jams them back on his face. " _Fuck_ no." 

Oh. "That bad?" 

"You know how nails on a chalkboard sound, right? Or metal scraping up against concrete, broken glass in a blender?" He shivers again, wrapping his arms around himself. "Yeah. Feels like all that shit, up in my goddamn bones. Like I could _count_ 'em if I wanted, just because they're all full of...that." 

Poor kid. "It'll pass in an hour or so." 

"...yeah. Okay."

* * *

**== > Dave: Wait it out.**

It doesn't really pass. 

Yeah, the initial horrible sensation that you kind of failed to describe does fade, after maybe two hours, but that doesn't mean this shit goes away. It just...relocates. Your brain, instead of your skeleton. Or maybe your central nervous system in general; you don't have a fuckin' clue. Whatever makes you feel like you're about to throw up and pass out and have a panic attack all on top of each other. 

Shit, this is unpleasant. Jack's not in here to ask if you're okay, at least, because if he was you'd probably make everything worse by getting stuck between lying to make him think you're fine, or trying to explain what the hell you feel like now. But then again, if he was in here you'd have a distraction. 

You really need a distraction. 

...okay, there's like, a zero percent chance this'll actually work, but you settle down on the bed and open your laptop anyway. 

turntechGodhead (TG) started pestering carcinoGeneticist (CG)!

Well, fuck. Learn something new every day, you guess. 

TG: dude hey   
TG: pssst   
TG: karkat  
TG: shit what time is it on your end   
TG: hold up ill look it up

CG: EMPTY FUCKING SPACE, DAVE, SOMETIMES IT TAKES ME MORE THAN TEN SECONDS TO GET ONLINE, CALM THE FUCK DOWN.

TG: oh good because google says its like the approximate equivalent of noon where youre at

CG: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT "NOON" IS.

TG: wild   
TG: hey are you like busy or anything 

CG: YES DAVE, I'M ENGAGED IN A LIFE OR DEATH SITUATION. THAT'S WHY I'M TALKING TO YOU ABOUT BULLSHIT HUMAN TIME MEASUREMENTS.   
CG: I'M NOT BUSY, JUST HIDING FROM DAMARA IN MY BLOCK. WHAT'S WRONG?

...uh. 

TG: nothings wrong

Okay, so that's not exactly true, but you have no clue how to explain what's going on without getting your ass reamed for not telling him about the whole "going to Alternia" thing in the first place. Goddamn. 

TG: i just like   
TG: wanna watch a movie?

CG: THE LAST TIME YOU ASKED ME THAT I HAD THAT STUPID CATCHY BULLSHIT SONG THEY USED IN THE CREDITS STUCK IN MY HEAD FOR A MONTH.

TG: you pick the movie

CG: OKAY, NOW I *KNOW* SOMETHING'S WRONG. 

TG: just shut up and go pick something to host    
TG: the whole point is to have you ramble about it in the chat 

CG: AND YOU'RE WILLING TO WATCH ONE OF MY MOVIES FOR THAT.

TG: fuck yes

CG: AND YOU'RE SURE YOU'RE OKAY? AS IN, YOU CAN TRUTHFULLY TELL ME NOTHING HAPPENED? THERE ISN'T SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR FUCKING BROTHER OR ABOUT NOIR THAT YOU'RE NOT TELLING ME?

TG: nah man i swear   
TG: okay look im experiencing some like   
TG: technical difficulties  
TG: glitchy code on the old meat computer yknow

CG: I CAN HONESTLY SAY THAT I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT RIGHT NOW. 

TG: pfffft yeah thats okay man   
TG: its not bro and its not noir   
TG: i swear

CG: BUT SOMETHING'S WRONG.

TG: uh   
TG: like i said i got some brain issues right now   
TG: cmon dude can we not play this game right this second i just wanna watch some shit i only kinda understand and have you try to explain it to me

CG: DIAL BACK THE SARCASM.   
CG: SORRY, THE "IRONY."

TG: hey its only irony if i dont mean it and i one hundred percent do   
TG: i like having you talk to me especially about shit you care about 

CG: HUH.    
CG: MAYBE I SHOULD JUST TALK ABOUT YOU THEN.

Fuck?

TG: wh   
TG: we are so discussing that lil statement later when i got more privacy  
TG: god actually maybe doing it now is worth risking a panic attack when jack shows up again

CG: NO, IT'S NOT.

TG: okay maybe its not but later were having the talk

CG: "THE TALK?" FUCK, DAVE, WHAT IS IT WITH YOU AND DRAMA?   
CG: JUST FOR THAT, WE'RE WATCHING TITANIC. GET YOUR ASS IN THE APP BEFORE I START WITHOUT YOU. AND I'M GOING TO STOP SPEAKING TO YOU IF YOU FALL ASLEEP HALFWAY THROUGH AGAIN.

TG: no you wont

CG: SHUT UP AND LET ME DELIVER MY EMPTY THREATS, ASSWIPE.    
CG: SEE YOU OVER THERE.

carcinoGeneticist disconnected!

You disconnect as well, taking a deep breath as you open the video app. Fuck, five minutes of talking to him and you're calmer already.

(You wonder what meeting him in person is going to be like. If you get to do that.) 

(No, not _if_. You are going to get to do that. You _are_.) 

Okay, stop thinking about that right now, or you're gonna stress over it too. Great advice, and right now you can actually take it. You close your tabs, grab your headphones, and settle down to watch your best bro talk about a movie.


	10. Chapter 10

**== > Jack: Talk to the helmsman.**

Yeah, you already did that.

It means something much different than it would have twelve sweeps ago. Just that long ago, there would have been no talking to the helmsman, not really. The best you could've managed would've been a limited, probably binary dialogue over some kind of computer screen; you probably would have gotten almost nothing out of the exchange other than a vaguely sick feeling, at the fact that these assholes thought that shit was necessary. 

Now, though? 

You caught the psionic—a rustblood rather than a gold, rare but not unheard of—just as she was leaving one of the viewing rooms. Looking at her, you had the thought that she must be young, new to this...or she just really loves space. Either one is possible, you guess. 

Her eyes went wide when you greeted her in Alternian rather than any Earth language, which was precisely the reaction you were hoping for. That gave you a little more leverage to get her to help you out with the meds you wanted for Dave, almost certainly. 

She had them, of course. All ships carry them onboard; psionics and other sensitives _need_ to be able to dampen their ability to get in touch with the resonance of the nested universes that exist in the same space, unless they're fine with losing their minds after only two or three trips. 

(Or unless their consciousness is spread out over an entire ship, overloaded with input from the vessel itself, but that's an _entirely_ different kettle of worms.) 

Talking her into giving you enough of a supply for this trip took a couple hours, but you're patient. Not quite patient enough, really...in the end, you decide that giving up a little info to her and checking back with the kid sooner is better than just persevering until she gives up and hands over the meds, which _would_ happen in maybe another couple hours.

So you closed your eyes, and you told her about how it feels to perceive the layers upon layers of paper-thin realities that the ship brushes against as it travels this reality. You told her about the sensation of your mind sensing the even deeper levels of hyperspace itself, the ones that'll shake this fragile ship and all its transient cargo apart into subatomic fragments in nanoseconds if it happened to burrow just a few layers down from where you are now. 

(You do feel all that, of course. The only lie here is that it actually bothers you; you're used to knowing that shit. If you ever _weren't_ aware of that aspect of existence—whether you're in hyperspace or out of it—you think it'd fuck you up as badly as shoving a human in a properly silent place would fuck _them_ up.) 

The helmsman listened to you. Then she got up, led you to what you assumed was the medic for the ship, a human with half-hour hair who really doesn't look all that much older than Dave, and told him what you needed. 

He handed it over without any kind of an argument. The whole experience wasn't too difficult, all in all, but by the time you get back Dave's asleep anyway, curled around his laptop.

It's on, but the display's gone dark from however long he's left it alone. You carefully remove it from the kid's loose grip, close it without waking it up to turn it off and put it back in the bag it came out of. When he wakes up, you can give him the pills and tell him his computer's still on. 

Shouldn't be a problem.

* * *

**== > Dave: Dream.**

Except— 

Except you don't— 

This isn't—

_No._

Your jaw aches. You can't breathe around what's in your mouth, halfway into your throat, shoving in further whenever you gag around it. You shouldn't fucking _have_ to gag, you know how to do this, but this shit's so cold you—you can't swallow. You can't handle it. 

When you do manage to get a breath through your nose, remember the rhythm that you wish you didn't know, the hard presence suddenly fucking _dissolves_. Wet liquid ice that tastes like molten plastic goes down your throat, choking you, filling your lungs—you're drowning. You're sinking in it, eyes open and sight blurred by translucent greenness that might as well go on forever. 

Aren't you supposed to watch the bubbles to see which way's up? God, you need to—you have to be able to—you can't just—

There's no air left in your body to be expelled, though, and the bubbles that hang around you don't seek the surface. It's too thick for that. You're not sinking, just hanging here like a fly embedded in amber, trapped and alive and about to die. 

No. 

Wait. 

They're soap-bubbles, and they don't move because there's no real air movement in the apartment, the fall air still and hot and not-quite-stale. Your skin's wet with sweat, and it seems like the only breeze in the building is the soft puff of a seven-year-old's breath as you blow soap bubbles through a loop of string. 

You look up, and Bro actually _grins_ down at you as he leans down to dip his hand into the bowl of soapy water, making a ring out of his thumb and index finger, blowing gently until a shining rainbow sphere larger than any two of your efforts combined disconects and hangs in the air. 

Oh, god, it looks like the earth. No, it _is_ the earth, it—

The sword pops the bubble, kills the earth, spears into the mattress an inch from your head. You don't flinch, half because he'd never hurt you (not in your room, not with the sword, those two things don't go together) and half because the beatdown's worse when you flinch. When you're a pussy piece of shit. 

Not flinching doesn't mean you get to skip the beatdown, though. You yank the sword free of the mattress, roll off the bed and land on your feet. 

The floor shatters like an eggshell; shards slice into your skin, lighting your nerves up with pain like strife upon strife, all that shit falling on you at once. 

Falling. 

You're falling. You always knew this'd happen sooner or later, that you'd get sloppy enough or _desperate_ enough to go over the edge. Bro's still up on the roof, of course he is, where else would he be? 

But you're falling. 

You thought you'd be able to go down with your mouth shut, but you're screaming. You're screaming. 

No. You're making muffled sounds, because your throat is full of—

_This is hell, isn't it?_

* * *

**== > Jack: Realize that you have, in fact, fucked up. **

The sounds that pull you awake don't trip your danger instincts, not really. For about a second and a half you just lie there, not yet even tensed up as you come all the way awake and parse the sounds you're heading. When you do, you immediately roll off the bed and onto your feet, flicking the lights on on your way over to Dave. 

Fuck. 

He's on the floor, half-curled around himself and obviously still asleep; you're guessing that the sound of him falling was what woke you up. Either that, or the soft, hopelessly painful sound of the kid's sobbing. 

Empty space, why the _fuck_ did you not wake him up before? 

Usually, touching Dave is a surefire way to wake him up, but this time all he does when you put one hand on his shoulder is gasp and try to roll away from you, eyes flickering behind closed lids. Even when you pull him up into a sitting position he doesn't rouse, head rolling bonelessly to one side as you shake him gently. 

He keeps sobbing the entire time (which can't be more than half a minute but feels like hours) gasping and twitching slightly. It's...

Bad. Very fucking bad. 

Okay, so you might panic slightly, which is kind of a new thing for you. On the one hand, it means you handle the kid a bit more roughly than you intend to, but on the other hand, he _does_ finally open his eyes. 

Unfortunately, he just stares at you for a second with no hint of anything but terror in his eyes, and then gasps in another breath and twists away, pushing himself backwards as well as he can. 

Fuck. 

You retreat, a few feet, but stay hunkered down roughly at his eye level. No need to scare him worse than he is. "Kid, listen to me. Look at me. It's a dream." 

That doesn't really work too well; you're not even sure he's hearing you right now. Those red eyes are fixed on you, too wide and too scared, and he's panting more than anything. 

"Dave, you know me. I know you do. You know I've never hurt you, and I'm not planning on starting now." He doesn't try to get away when you move toward him again, which you're hoping is a positive sign. "It's a dream. I know it's fucking you up; I've seen shit like this before. It's not just you." 

The kid doesn't actually react to anything you're saying, but when you touch his shoulder he shudders, closing his eyes. You don't know if you need to take your hand away, until you see a tiny portion of the tension leave his shoulders. 

Okay. He's going to be okay, you think.

Well, you think that for a second, anyway. Then Dave mumbles, "Just drop the bad shit on me already, fucker," and you realize that he's either partially or wholly convinced that he's still dreaming. 

Well, shit. 

"Kid, I've got a pill you need to take." 

" _No_." Okay, so that wasn't entirely unexpected, but you still wince at the way he instantly starts trembling under your hand. "No, shit, I won't—you can't—" 

"Whatever you're thinking, it's not it." Oh, he does _not_ believe you. "It'll help, I swear to you." 

"No," he says again, and fuck but the look on his face actually hurts. Physically hurts. "I can't—Jack, fuck, it's—" 

"Hey. It's okay." You pull back a bit, meaning to grab the bottle of pills out of the pocket of your coat where it's hung on the chair, and Dave immediately clutches at your hand, latching on like everything's about to fall apart around him. 

Hell, he might think it is. 

"Kid..." 

He still won't let go, and you don't have the heart to really try to force him to. If you lean back and stretch until your shoulder twinges with pain, you can catch the sleeve of your coat, drag it down to where you can rifle one-handed through the pockets. It's just barely possible to dig out the bottle without pulling your hand out of Dave's grip. 

The kid stares at you the whole time you do this, like he's sure you're looking for a weapon to hurt him with. His breathing doesn't even out from that fucking awful unstructured pattern of panting gasps. 

Thank the stars the cap's the kind that requires you to line up two arrows and pop it off, rather than the push'n'twist. Means you can get it off with one hand and a little persistence; Dave flinches at the soft sound it makes when you get it loose. He just stares at the small blue pill, when you shake one out into the floor between him and you. 

"It _will_ help," you tell him, quietly, as you get the cap back on the bottle. "This isn't something you can just ride out and get used to. If I'd known it'd be this bad for you, I would've had you on this shit before we ever got on this tin can." 

The kid just stares at you, hands tightening around your wrist. If you were human, that would hurt. 

"Kid, c'mon. Please." 

You don't know how to force him to do this. Go get either the helmsman or the medic, you guess. Maybe both of them. Hell, if he's reacting this badly to you, you hate to think what he's going to do when someone he _really_ doesn't know shows up—

Dave makes a stifled sound, drawing your attention as one hand releases you and darts out almost to quick for you to follow, snatching up the pill. It's in his mouth before you can say a word; his throat works before you can point out that he probably shouldn't swallow that dry. 

As soon as it's down he lets you go and curls in on himself again, starting to sob. 

"Shit, kid. Come here." 

He's limp, when you pick him up off the floor. Unresisting, like he's just decided to quit participating. He stays that way as you lay him on your marginally wider bed rather than his own, eyes squeezed not quite tight enough shut to contain the tears seeping out. 

When you settle down next to him after flicking the lights off again, you can hear him whispering _no_ over and over, and you understand why. 

You also know that being this close is very goddamn likely to help at least a little, with the hyperspace-induced symptoms at least. His trauma is another thing, but...at this point it's a balancing act, and you're trying to do it on a trampoline in the middle of a hurricane. 

Damn near impossible, but like hell you're not going to try anyway. 

You roll to put your back toward Dave, remind yourself to neither move toward him nor roll off the bed in your sleep, and close your eyes.

* * *

**== > Dave: Try so fucking hard to form coherent thoughts.**

You're pretty much losing the battle there, but the main one that manages to get through is that you're never going to be able to sleep again. Not now, with—with him so close. Maybe not ever, not when you can remember—

You've never had a dream like that before, and you ain't exactly a stranger to nightmares. That melted into one hellscape after another, brief benign moments letting you _think_ it was over, you were okay, only to drag you down into something worse every time. 

Hell. It was hell. Bro killed you somewhere along there, fucked up and went just a little too far. You're dead and this is hell. 

God, you can't fucking think anymore. 

You're shaking so badly that it's going to wake Jack up, if he's actually asleep. You think he's asleep; normal people don't go that still when they're awake, can't measure their breathing that well. 

You can. When you know you're awake. 

You don't know if you're awake. You don't know if you're _alive_. 

Breathe. Calm. You're alive. You're (probably) awake. Jack's not touching you, just lying there on the outer half of the bed, almost certainly asleep. Protecting you. You fell off your bed, didn't you? Dreaming? You woke up on the floor, you're sure of that much. On the floor with his hands on your shoulders, weeping and trying to scream. 

Do you need to scream still? 

You exhale through your mouth, inhale through your nose, and try to think about that lil' question. You...you _think_ the answer is no, you don't want to scream. The nightmare's receded, at least a little. It's still fresh in your mind, still horrifying, but you're—

Awake. You're out of that hell. You know you are. Have to be. 

You kind of wonder if the pill Jack gave you is kicking in already. Has it been long enough for that? 

You're not sure. Time is weird, here and now. 

It's fucking unbelievable, but you are tired. Even after all this shit, you're tired. 

You shift around until your back's to Jack, not quite touching him anywhere. (Maybe you could handle contact. You're too much of a pussy to find out.) 

And after a few minutes of just breathing, you finally manage to close your eyes.

* * *

If you dream, you don't know about it.


	11. Chapter 11

**== > Jack: Wake up, before the kid does. **

Not that you know exactly when he's going to wake up. You're not some kind of prophet, after all; merely possessed of an internal clock that announces that now would probably be about the right time to open your eyes.

When you do, you catch the telltale flickering of the light on the alarm set into the wall, a sign that it's about three seconds away from going off. Dave's still asleep next to you; you can sense that without even looking over at him. He should sleep longer, if he can, so you roll off the bed and hit the button to stop the alarm just as the flickering LED goes bright red, maybe a millisecond into the grating wakeup tone.

The kid doesn't move, you don't think. If he does it's just to press his face against the pillow a bit more, wrap his arms tighter around himself. He never does sleep without clinging to something, and you neglected to pull the pillow off his bunk last night, so he's obviously ended up hugging himself. 

_Damn. Poor kid._ That thought seems to keep passing through your mind a lot lately. 

He doesn't stir when you flip the lights on, or when you sit back down on the bed next to him. You're tempted to touch him, get some physical reassurance that he's okay even if that assurance means exactly jackshit until you're able to talk to him...

Yeah, you're not going to touch him. Better not. Not without his permission, not right now. Instead, you lean down to retrieve your coat from where you dropped it last night, draping it across your lap and starting to check that everything's still in the many pockets. 

About halfway through that task, Dave groans behind you. For a minute it's just a half-pained noise; then he mumbles to himself, finally resolving into actual words. 

"...yo...fuck, man... the _fuck_." Okay, some words. Not very many. But some. He's trying, even if it's a struggle. "Jesus. Wrong bed." 

"I was trying to help." You look over your shoulder, down at the kid; he's got one eye open, squinting up at you like the light hurts. "My kind, we've got some...interesting properties in hyperspace. Shit, we've got interesting properties in space prime too, if you know how to measure them." 

Dave just shrugs, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. "Yeah. Sure." 

"Kid—" 

"You di'n't touch me, I know. 's fine. Don't remember whatever the fuck happened, but I'd remember that shit. 's fine." 

"You're not fine. Talk to me, kid. Give me a status report here." That last is not quite a joke. You want to know—need to know?—how he's feeling right now, mentally and physically. 

As far as you know the drug doesn't have any side effects, but unfiltered perception for someone who doesn't know what it is or why it's happening sure as hell does. 

Dave doesn't answer for a bit; his breathing slows down, body relaxes to the point where you start hoping he's falling back asleep. But no. "Status report," he says, and it's a little less slurred now. 

"Yeah. Need to know if you need to see a doctor." 

"Don't fuckin' _want_ to." 

"Humor me." 

More silence. Then, "Shoulder. Hurts like I fell on it—" 

"You probably did." 

"Yeah. I remember—I remember thinkin' that I was stupid for turning falling off the bed into falling off the goddamn roof, in the dream. Something like that." 

"You remember the dream?" 

He shudders, the hand that's in your line of vision clenching into a fist. "No. I don't— _fuck_ , Jack, I can't think about that shit. You can't—" 

"I'm not planning on making you think about it, calm down." Stupid of you to bring it up in the first place. "Other than your shoulder?" 

"Feel like I got a hangover." 

You have to ask. "You got a lot of experience with hangovers?" 

Dave raises his arm just enough to give you a deadpan stare. "Yeah," he says, completely flat, and then drops his arm down on his face again. "Bro had a thing for that sometimes; I've been shitfaced like, three times? Three. I think, three. Fuck, woke up the next morning naked and somewhere that wasn't where I didn't passed out, all three times..." 

He's mumbling again, trailing off into unintelligibility. You compare his vague description of _then_ to _now_ , and inwardly wince. 

"Probably would've left you in your own bed if I'd known that," you admit. 

Dave surprises you with a short sound that might be a laugh. "Nah. Least I didn't dream with you that close, right?" 

"That's one positive point." You're not sure if you had anything to do with that, though. The pill he took should've cut off the effect it causes those nightmares, after all. But still. "We're going to go have you checked out, once you actually feel like moving." 

He groans again, long and dramatically put-upon this time; you have a feeling that the aversion to having any kind of doctor look at him isn't feigned. "Jack, c'mon. 'm _fine..._ " 

"Yeah, so it'll only take a minute." 

Dave just groans again, mumbles something that sounds a lot like _fucker_ , and rolls over onto his stomach to bury his face in the mattress. You guess that's an understandable enough reaction.

* * *

**== > Dave: _Fine._ Go and see the _goddamn_ doctor. **

Not like you have a lot of choice about it, is it? 

...okay, that's not fair. Jack still isn't forcing you into this, nothing like how your bro forced you into shit. Hell, he's not really even pushing this, you guess. All he did was (gently) tell you that you were gonna need to go, once you felt like getting vertical again. 

Honestly, you feel like you want to remain horizontal a hell of a lot longer. You feel like _shit._

And you give yourself about twenty minutes of lying there to see if that shitty feeling will go away, before giving up and _getting_ up. Jack's actually gone for most of that time; he comes back just as you finish the dismayingly slow process of getting dressed, setting a cup of what you hope is coffee or something similarly hot and a clear yellow pillbottle on the table next to your shades. 

Shades go on your face, cup in your right hand and bottle in your left as you take a swallow of the drink and sigh in relief. It's not coffee, not any tea you recognize, you have no idea what it is but it kind of tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg and it's hot enough to not-quite-burn. 

Reading the label on the bottle doesn't quite work for you; you're not sure if that's 'cause your brain's still scrambled or 'cause the words aren't familiar at all. Lacking the patience to sound them out phonetically so Jack'll clue you in, you look over at him instead, raising an eyebrow as you take another gulp of the spiced drink he's brought you. 

He gets the question you wanna ask, too. "It's a perception blocker. You took one last night." 

Huh. You...fuck, that's something you don't remember. Maybe it's behind the barrier of fear that your mind skitters away from every time you try to think past it. Fuck, you hate the thought of taking shit and not remembering it, even if it's just a...perception blocker. Whatever the hell that is. 

Oh, just _ask_ him, dumbass. 

"The fuck's a perception blocker?" 

"Some psionics take them, if they're going to be in hyperspace. Keeps 'em from getting overwhelmed by all the energy feedback down here." 

"One, I don't get why you keep calling it _down_ —" 

"Because it is." 

"Okay, but I don't get it—two, why the hell did I need to take this?" You shake the bottle at him. You're assuming you _did_ need to take the pill, that he gave it to you; it's not like you'd take shit of your own volition. Antibiotics, yeah; painkillers, maybe, if shit was bad enough; perception blockers, no. Especially when you didn't know what the hell the things did. 

Jack just shrugs. "You're sensitive enough for the feedback to fuck with you. You needed them." 

"I'm not a psionic. Fuck, I'm not even a troll—" 

"First off, human psionics exist, they're just about as rare as crystalline stars. Second, about twenty percent of humans end up affected by some kind of mental symptoms in hyperspace. You're just a bit further down the scale on how bad it gets, is all." 

If that's supposed to make you feel better, it fails utterly. All that happens is you get slightly more frustrated. 

"How the hell do you _know_ this shit?" you demand, and immediately fill your mouth with the last of the drink to keep yourself from asking why _you_ don't know. Why nobody warned you. Why the _hell_ this had to happen to _you_ , specifically. 

And he has the fucking _nerve_ to shrug again. 

Wow, you're pissed right now. What the fuck?

* * *

The guy you're assuming is the doctor is a hell of a lot younger than you expected him to be. At least, he looks like he is. And he blinks in what looks like surprise when Jack leads you in, head tilting a bit as Jack nudges you forward.

"Yes, the meds work fine; no, they weren't for me," Jack says before anyone else has time to say anything. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, nodding at you. "My kid had an episode before he had a chance to take those. My fault; I figured it'd be fine to let him sleep." 

(You almost got stuck on the first half of that second sentence. _My kid._ Fuck. You guess that's accurate, but to actually hear him say it? _Fuck._ )

...okay, so you missed the guy introducing himself, and Jack's just stepped back out of the room. Damn, you kind of wanted him to not do that. 

The doctor (or whatever he is) smiles at you, and you make the decision that yes, you do have to try to function in this situation, despite your _very_ strong desire not to and your headache. 

"Uh." Shit, you did already fuck up, though. "Yeah, uh, I'm Dave, I have no idea what the hell your name is or what you just asked you to do, I'm, uh—" 

"Hey, it happens." The guy shrugs, nodding at one of the chairs in the room. "I mean, we're going to be running a couple cognitive tests right now, so the whole zoning-out thing makes even more sense, right?" 

"Uh. Yeah, I guess?" Okay, this ain't exactly like the other dozen or so times you've ended up having to seek medical attention. 

"It definitely is, trust me. Look, I'm Matthew; all you need to do is sit down and let me hook you up to a couple sensors so we can make sure nothing's scrambled, alright?" 

You nod, moving to where he seems to want you. You can handle this.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Matthew's frowning down at the notebook he's been writing (presumably) the results of the tech-heavy cuff he had you put around your wrist as you listened to a series of unrelated sounds over a set of headphones you only just took off. It's a look you associate with the guys who look at x-rays and then ask you what kind of car accident you were in to have _that_ many healed fractures; you're consciously preventing yourself from clenching your hands into fists tight enough to make your palms bleed. 

You don't even know what he saw to worry about. There's nothing on the small portion of your arm to make him suspicious, no scars from old strifes, _nothing_ —

"Dave, you're fine. It's okay." Matthew glances up, looks straight at you. "Calm down." 

"Who says I'm not—" 

"The heart rate and blood pressure monitors hooked up to your arm right now say you're not." 

Oh. "Shit." 

He doesn't say a word or move to stop you as you fumble the thing off and set it on the table between the two of you. Once you've got it off, though, he picks up his pen again, obviously using it as a pointer as he moves down the list he's made. "Okay, so you had higher stress reactions to a couple stimuli here, mostly ones linked to..." 

Fuck. "Fighting," you mumble, even though you know it's just going to dig you into a deeper hole. You cross your arms, letting yourself sink down a little in the chair. 

Now come the fucking questions. 

Except they don't. Matthew just nods, and scribbles something else down, not looking up from his notes. "I was actually going to say combat, mostly because 'fighting' is a different set of aural stimuli. The ones you had the most noticeable reactions to were mostly in the metallic subset..." 

"Yeah." Even when it was happening you knew you were flinching. Couldn't really help it, not with what sounded like swords hitting swords right in your _ears._

Fuck, he's still looking at you; does he want some kind of feedback other than you just acknowledging what he said here? Well, tough shit. You're not going to volunteer it.

Eventually he seems to realize that. Ten seconds, maybe. "Okay, well, that was the only thing off baseline, and I'm guessing you have reasons for it being like that. Your...dad?" 

Oh. Jack. Well, he does have the custody papers. Technically that's what he is. "Uh, yeah." 

"He gave you the blockers, right? There's dosage info on the bottle, but all it means is that you take one a day, until we make the shift back to realspace. They should prevent any episodes, but if you do feel like you felt before you went on them you need to come back here, alright?" When you nod, he gets to his feet. "All right, you should be good, then!" 

Wait, you're done? 

Jesus, that was easy.


	12. Chapter 12

**== > Jack: Check your messages. **

The kid drops back down onto his bed before you even get the door shut behind you, grabbing the pillow and pulling it over his head. You're actually kind of worried he's going to suffocate himself, lying on his stomach with his face pressed into the mattress like that. 

"Dave—" 

"I'm going the _fuck_ to sleep." The announcement is muffled, unsurprisingly.

"Sure, but can you breathe?" Although you suppose the fact that he's talking answers that question. "Want the light off?"

"Yes. No. In that order." The pillow gets pulled down a little more firmly, and you decide to not question him any further.

Instead, you retrieve your phone from where you left it on your own bunk, slipping out of the room. It's been a while since you've looked out at hyperspace; you think you'll take this opportunity to both let Dave have his space and take a look at this universe.

* * *

Humans and trolls, they don't see this place like your species does, you don't think. If they did, the observation room wouldn't be empty but for you. 

Then again, if anyone else was in here you probably wouldn't end up standing directly under the viewport, just staring up at the swirling mass of shades of green. Yeah, it's all green, like they say, but there's so much of a spectrum within that one color, smears of what might almost be white all the way down to flecks of not-quite-black.

Damn, your species hasn't had a planet for a star's lifetime, and yet something in you remembers when the sky was filled with this. This is why your species are wanderers; hyperspace feels like home. 

Kind of ironic that the kid you've ended up with can't stand it without assistance, especially since there's a good chance that means that the structure of his brain is closer to yours than most humans. You could take that to mean you were meant to end up with him, or that you really weren't. 

You're going with the former. Definitely the former. 

Hm. You've been standing here for maybe ten minutes, and your phone's been buzzing in your pocket for at least seven of that. Might as well check it. 

Hmm. You've got no idea who this is. 

artificialIntellect [AI] started pestering sableTraveler (ST)!

AI: Okay, I may be overreacting but guess what? I don't care.   
AI: Underreacting is worse, honestly. That's basically what we did for fifteen fucking years, after all, and look where that got Dave.   
AI: So yes, I'm going to play the paranoid older brother. And I _will_ make you regret it if you try to make a case that I'm not allowed to fill that role.  
AI: The guy who was filling it is currently in a more fitting place. Not as good as hell would be, but the next best thing.   
AI: ...I'm off topic. Apologies.   
AI: I mean, there's a chance you're going to be irritated by the fact that I chose to message you just because Dave hasn't messaged me for twenty-four hours, but I'll handle that when I get to it.  
AI: I suppose I could hack his laptop. See if there's any kind of info on the webcam or his pesterchum account.   
AI: Fuck. I mean, there probably wouldn't be.   
AI: He keeps secrets like his life depends on it.  
AI: I hate thinking about why.  
AI: You know, the fact that you aren't answering either doesn't exactly instill confidence here. More like, I'm actually almost certain shit's fucked up.  
AI: God damn it.

sableTraveler [ST] joined the chat! 

ST: Don't get your panties in a twist, kid.   
ST: Who am I talking to here? D, Dirk, or Hal?

AI: Ah. He's told you about us, at least.

ST: A bit. Enough for me to dig up a bit more online.   
ST: You planning on making me guess?

AI: It's Hal. Where's Dave?

ST: Asleep.    
ST: You've been in hyperspace, yeah?

AI: If you're about to attempt to sell me some bullshit about him sleeping because of hyperspace, I'm going to meet you at the spaceport and kick your ass.

ST: Good luck with that, kid.   
ST: Nah. He had a rough night. Kid's sensitive to the resonance of this universe. I was planning on asking if you had that problem.

AI: I can sense when it's clear to shift from one state to the other, but that doesn't mean anything. D can sometimes, and Dirk can't at all.

ST: Doesn't always run in the family. That's not what he has anyway.

AI: I don't even know what you're talking about. 

ST: You asked about the kid.

AI: Dave.

ST: Yeah. Dave. Apologies.   
ST: Hyperspace don't agree with him. Like a psionic. Or a bad trip. The kind you go on without going anywhere.

AI: ...   
AI: One moment. 

artificialIntellect disconnected!

You assume he'll be back, so you wait, looking up at the green spacescape. Hyperspacescape? Nah, seems like a clumsy word for something that pretty.   
The phone buzzes in your hand after perhaps a minute. Probably less. 

artificialIntellect joined the chat! 

AI: Most sources I can find suggest the symptoms of shift sickness can be managed with medication.

ST: Yeah. He's on it now. 

AI: And yet he's still not answering his pesterchum.

ST: He's asleep. Like I said, he had a rough night.   
ST: Kid, if you weren't his brother? I'd be telling you to fuck off right now. Not planning on letting anything happen to my kid.

AI: Jesus, if you're actually going to claim ownership over Dave like he's some kind of animal or possession I _will_ make sure you're arrested the minute you set foot on this planet.

ST: The hell are you talking about? 

AI: Like you don't hear yourself. "My kid." 

ST: Empty goddamn space, all the Striders are psychotic.

AI: First of all, fuck you.

ST: I'm pretty damn sure I don't deserve that.    
ST: You're one of the hacker kids. He said you were. I remember that.    
ST: Dig around in the ship's medlogs. Should be a record of me getting two weeks' worth of the meds Dave needed. Sometime last night, even if he didn't take them until later.   
ST: Might say they're for me.

AI: They do.

ST: Yeah. Didn't want to drag him out and make him handle the doc.

AI: You did later, though. What, half an hour ago?   
AI: The medic's made a note of PTSD symptoms on top of the shift sickness.

ST: Damn.

AI: Damn? 

ST: Should have stayed on Earth a while longer. Got him in therapy.

AI: ...I'll start lining someone up for him here. 

ST: Yeah. Thanks.    
ST: You satisfied I'm not hurting him yet?

AI: Somewhat.   
AI: Mostly.   
AI: Look, he's my brother and some fucked-up shit's already happened to him, shit we somehow didn't catch. At this point it's my job to be paranoid and overprotective.

ST: Can't argue with that.

AI: Ah. I really did expect you to, you know.

ST: Nah.    
ST: He's my kid. Got the papers that say so, and they're more legitimate than most documents I have.   
ST: Not ownership. Family. 

AI: D's brother might say there's no difference.

ST: The shithead? Fuck him. With a sword.   
ST: The sharp end.

AI: I thought you had dealings with him.

ST: Had. Past tense.    
ST: You had him arrested, yeah?

AI: You know I did.

ST: Good.   
ST: You don't trust me. That because I paid to get the kid out?

AI: Um.

ST: Was the quickest way to fix the situation. Make sure he ended up safe.   
ST: You think he'd be better off with people he's related to?

AI: Not that fucker.

ST: You?

AI: Yes.

ST: Ask him. Dave.

AI: Ask him what, exactly?

ST: Where he wants to be. Planning on staying on Alternia anyway. Near you, whether or not he makes the decision to split from me.   
ST: Kid needs more family than he has right now. You're part of an enclave, yeah?

AI: D's quadranted, yes. And Dualscar's other quadrants are our family.

ST: Good. Kid needs that. Family.

AI: I'm pretty fucking sure he'll be part of it as soon as he gets here.

ST: Implies I won't.   
ST: Still planning on being around. Either way he chooses.

AI: Stalking him isn't going to fly either.

ST: First off? You wouldn't know if I was.   
ST: I wouldn't. Kid doesn't need that.   
ST: Don't think he'd want to completely get rid of me.

AI: You don't know that.

ST: Kid, you can have it in writing right here and now that the minute Dave tells me he doesn't want me around, or tells you that, I'm gone.    
ST: Wouldn't like doing it.   
ST: Damn. Care about the kid too much, maybe.

AI: I don't think that's exactly a bad thing, Slick.

ST: Ah.   
ST: You've been doing your research.

AI: A benefit of being able to access the internet at a more personal level than most people is being really damn good at ferreting out info.

ST: You didn't find anything sketchy.

AI: You seem confident.

ST: Nothing to find.   
ST: The sketchy shit went down places and ways no one would document.

AI: You're not exactly inspiring trust here.

ST: Hey, you ask the right questions and I'll tell you the truth. Not going to lie to you.   
ST: Just about everyone I've wasted had it coming.   
ST: Should've taken out the shithead, actually. Wasn't sure I could make sure the kid would be okay if I did.

AI: I think I prefer this outcome, actually. 

ST: Course you do. He's safe and on his way to you, right?   
ST: It's been a while. Should go check on him.   
ST: Message me later if you're not done being suspicious.

sableTraveler disconnected!

* * *

**== > Dave: Fail to sleep.**

That's probably because you're like, not actually tired. Or tired, but not sleepy. You weren't kidding when you told Jack you felt like you had a hangover, after all; most of the desire to escape into unconsciousness is probably because it _is_ an escape, from existence in general and the way you feel in particular. 

Damn. 

It takes you maybe ten minutes to come to the conclusion that lying face down with a pillow over your head is less satisfying when falling asleep is a thing that isn't actually happening; at that point you say "Fuck!" very loudly, sit up, and throw the pillow across the room. That action is actually pretty damn satisfying, even if the next thing you do is to go and pick it back up to toss it back onto the bed. 

Okay, might as well get online. 

Dirk's sent you a couple messages in the last day or so; you probably should've answered him yesterday, when you were watching Titanic with Karkat, but you just...didn't have the willpower for that. Or something. You remember that you couldn't handle anything other than just talking with Karkat, and even then you barely held up your end of the conversation. Not that he tried to make you. 

Speaking of Karkat, he's left you kind of a lot of messages too. You leave a reassurance to Dirk that yes, you're alive and unmolested, everything's fine; he's not online right now but he'll see it when he checks his pesterchum later. Then you open Karkat's chat. 

CG: I'M GOING TO ASSUME YOU DID FALL ASLEEP. WHICH MAKES THE SCORE ABOUT TWENTY FOR MY MOVIES, ZERO FOR YOU.   
CG: YOU KNOW, IF WE EVER CASH OUT OF THIS GAME YOU'RE *SO* GOING TO OWE ME LIKE ANYTHING I WANT.    
CG: I THINK I'LL MAKE YOU GET ME A MEOWBEAST. NO, MORE THAN ONE. YOU CAN GET ME FIVE OR SIX MEOWBEASTS AND THEN COME PILE WITH ME AND THEM.   
CG: OH, AND WATCH MORE MOVIES. THAT WAY YOU KEEP OWING ME AND I GET MORE AFFECTION OUT OF IT.   
CG: ...   
CG: YOU REALLY ARE ASLEEP, HUH?   
CG: THAT'S ACTUALLY GOOD. YOU DON'T SLEEP ENOUGH. AT LEAST I DON'T THINK YOU DO.    
CG: YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO CHECKS WHAT TIME IT SHOULD BE ON THE OTHER PLANET, YOU KNOW? I KNOW WHEN IT'S FUCK O CLOCK AT NIGHT AND YOU'RE TALKING TO ME ANYWAY. DUMBASS.   
CG: AGH.   
CG: GOG, I SHOULD DO THIS WHEN YOU'RE AWAKE, BUT FUCK IT.    
CG: YOU KNOW WHAT A MOIRAILLEGIANCE IS, RIGHT? LIKE, I'M PRETTY FUCKING SURE YOU *SHOULD* KNOW, WE'VE WATCHED ENOUGH PALEROMCOMS FOR THAT.    
CG: I'M BEING AN IDIOT, OF COURSE YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS.   
CG: UH.   
CG: JEGUS, I'M TALKING MORE THAN YOU DO, AND THAT'S SAYING SOMETHING. DO YOU ONLY DO IT TO AVOID GETTING TO THE POINT TOO? BECAUSE IF SO, I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS.   
CG: NOT THAT I WOULD.   
CG: AGAIN, *AGH.* I'M PRETTY SURE I SHOULD BE BETTER THAN THIS AT TELLING SOMEONE I'M PALE FOR THEM.   
CG: WAIT. FUCK!    
CG: I DIDN'T FUCKING MEAN TO SAY IT THAT WAY, I SWEAR.   
CG: ...ANYWAY.   
CG: I AM. PALE FOR YOU, I MEAN.   
CG: AND IT'S FINE IF YOU'RE NOT INTERESTED IN THAT! I GET IT, HUMANS DON'T QUADRANT LIKE WE DO AND YOU'RE ON ANOTHER PLANET AND I'M REALLY FUCKING BAD AT NOT SWINGING PALE FOR KANAYA AND GAMZEE AND BASICALLY ALL MY GODDAMN FRIENDS BUT THAT'S   
CG: THEY'RE NOT LIKE YOU. IT'S DIFFERENT WITH YOU.   
CG: I'M SO FUCKING BAD AT THIS.   
CG: LOOK, TALK TO ME WHEN YOU GET UP. IF YOU'RE NOT INTO THE WHOLE PALE THING, JUST. I DON'T FUCKING KNOW, PRETEND I DIDN'T BRING IT UP.

You come to the end of the block of grey text, and have to just. Sit there for a second, looking at the words until they kinda blend into one big blur, with a couple words jumping out here and there. 

Pale. Moiraillegiance. 

Yeah, you know what it means. Of course you do; he's only explained it maybe twenty fucking times, at least two or three of them in your not-too-frequent videochats. You can hear him in your head, going over that shit again. 

Fuck, you can't believe he actually feels like this about you. That he cares this goddamn _much_ , to want to—jesus. 

It's a good thing Karkat didn't do this when you were actually present to process it in real time, because you've been staring at the screen for way too long. He totally would've assumed you were gonna turn him down by now. 

Not that you'd ever do that. 

TG: yeah were not ignoring that   
TG: i mean yeah it probably seemed like i was ignoring you but no not fucking doing that   
TG: you know what youre getting into right? im kinda fucked up and bad at feelings and shit  
TG: like supposedly thatll get better eventually at least kinda but still    
TG: on the other hand you got the advantage of starting with a clean ish slate here cause i dont actually have any fuckin idea how to do human shit either   
TG: other than yknow how bro was with me which doesnt count as anything really other than monumentally fucked   
TG: god im making a case against myself thats what im doing here huh   
TG: stupid thing to do when i wanna just say yes fuck yes please yes   
TG: but like   
TG: actually think about this okay   
TG: talk to dirk and hal maybe? they know shit about me   
TG: actually no dont do that because i kinda dont trust em to not make me seem like less of a disaster than i totally am and you do need to know that   
TG: but seriously think about what youre offering me or asking for from me and if youre sure you want this mess then im one hundred percent down for it

Okay. You said it. Answered him, with a minimum of bullshit and waffling around about nothing in particular. 

You should probably correct him about the "on another planet" thing. You should definitely do that. 

TG: look i got some shit going down and you need to think it over   
TG: two weeks   
TG: ask me again in two weeks and ill say yes one hundred percent if you still want to then   
TG: i promise

That is _not_ analogous to telling him that if he still wants to be moirails in two weeks, you'll tell him yes in person. You suck at this. 

Hey, Hal's online now. You decide to abandon the empty chat and your own mild guilt for not coming clean with Karkat, for the moment at least, and send Hal a game invite instead. Should be an okay diversion, for an hour or two.


	13. Chapter 13

**== > Jack: Take your turn as the time-skip bridge.**

You almost expect Dave to end up experiencing some of the symptoms of shift sickness even with the pills, but (thankfully) that doesn't actually happen. Not in the full two weeks it takes to get from one planet to the other does he have another episode. 

(And two weeks is a long time in space, even for you. How a viable planet ended up developing way the hell out here in the galactic equivalent of the middle of nowhere, you'll never understand. And your ancestors almost certainly had something to do with it.)

Eh. Since humans were the end result of this chain of events, you'll weigh in as approving of it. 

Anyway. 

The pills work. Of course they do. And after three or four days of not having another episode like that first night, the kid stops expecting another one. The change is obvious, at least to you. He's quieter when he's anxious, spends more time on his laptop, flinches when you come within arm's reach of him. 

There's a definite sense of relief when he finally stops doing that again, though. You'd hate it if he ended up terrified of hyperspace because of his first physical reaction to it.

Another relieving thing is that even though you don't tell Dave about your talk with Hal, Hal apparently feels that the kid needs to know about it. He actually messages you back after a few days, not so much apologizing for all the suspicion as obliquely stating that Dave's given him more reason to believe that the suspicion's misplaced. 

It's not like you needed or expected an apology, anyway. They can't take Dave away from you, after all. Right? 

Right.

But having the kid's family not hate you is still nice. Well, at least the younger generation of it doesn't hate you; as far as you know, the twins _still_ haven't informed the elder Strider of current events. 

You're really hoping that that doesn't become a problem.

* * *

**== > Dave: Keep your cool.**

It's weird, because, like, there's a hell of a lot less aggressive security at the Alternian spaceport than there was back on Earth. You're pretty sure that if you'd been on your phone this constantly in the Earth spaceport, you'd totally have been pulled out for a random search or some shit, but here? They just wave you through, hand Jack the forms he's gotta fill out, keep shit moving. 

It's all good. Nice and easy. 

Fuck. 

You messaged Hal to give him a heads up that you'd be showing up in maybe an hour, and he came back with what was basically "alright, cool, time to tell D." Now you're...damn, okay, you're not panicking. Totally not standing here next to Jack as he fills out forms and just internally losing every scrap of composure you've got. 

You're not doing that. 

Liar. 

Yeah, you are. 

They didn't even fucking _ask_ him yet. He's the adult here; he's your bro's brother. He's not going to just—he's not going to take your side on this, just _accept_ that you ditched Bro, especially since you kind of definitely got him _arrested_ —

Oh, fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

"Kid, you okay?" Jack asks, which unfortunately makes you jump noticeably. "Ah." 

Yeah, he already knows you're not. 'Course, you _could_ insist that you are in fact okay, that you're fine, there ain't a single thing wrong...but it'd be, like, pointless. He already knows.

So. Plan B. B? You think it's B. 

There's a bored-looking oliveblooded (you think) troll behind the counter Jack's currently standing at; you lean forward, wait half a beat for her to register your existence, and ask, "There's a bathroom around here somewhere, right?" 

The second that she points you in the right direction, you're fuckin' gone.

* * *

**== > Jack: Follow Dave.**

You know that the kid's not okay even before you ask him the question; the fact that he ignores you just confirms your suspicion. The fact that he chooses to abscond rather than risk having you ask again makes things slightly more worrying. 

Realistically, no harm is going to come to him in this place. You still shove your (probably) completed customs forms across the counter, waiting just long enough for the midblood troll there to pick them up before following Dave. 

There's still enough of a gap between the two of you that he's in the stall with the door shut and locked before you get there. You resist the urge to check the strength of the latch, and instead lean against the wall opposite. 

"Kid." Damn; you can hear his uneven, shaky breathing. Not optimal. "Hey. Kid. Dave. Talk to me." 

" _No._ " The word comes out as almost a whisper, fitted in between almost desperate gasps, but he finds breath for more speech after another second. "Fuck, Jack, just—no. You got more—more paperwork? Yeah. Do that. Please. Just fucking _go,_ okay..." 

No way are you doing that. 

"Talk to me," you request again, very calmly. _Calm_ is really the best way to reach him, when he's panicking; _concern_ makes him more upset, anything he perceives as negative will shut him up, yeah, but not in a good way. 

"I _can't._ " 

"Then wait a minute, breathe, and then talk to me. We got time." 

The sound he makes at that is as painful as it is unexpected. You can't really call it a sob, but you don't know what else you _can_ call it. For a second, you debate trying to talk him out of whatever's going down in his head; then you decide against it, in favor of patience. 

After a minute or two, something on the other side of the thin metal door thumps, not too quietly. You're guessing it's his head making impact with the door or walls, and after the third repetition you actually do have to say something. 

"Kid, you're going to hurt yourself." 

Another thud. "I can't—" thud, " _fucking_ do this—" thud, "can't make it through without fucking up, D's not gonna—" _thud,_ significantly louder, "not gonna want anything to do with me, he _loves_ Bro, that's his fucking _brother_ —"

_Thud,_ and you stifle a sigh and smack the door with your palm, wincing at the gasp that draws out of Dave. 

"Stop banging your head against shit, okay?" 

"That's all you got to say? I dragged you all the way out here for—for fuckin' nothing, and all you got to say is for me to stop—" 

"It's not for nothing, calm down." 

"But he—" 

"You don't know what he's going to do." 

"I _do_!" Dave sobs in another gasp after that too-loud statement, not-quite-whimpering on the other side of the door. "The fuck do you think he's going to do? Be _happy_ about this shit, fuckin'—you think he'll be fuckin' _okay_ with trading my useless dumb ass for Bro? That's what this is, Bro's AWOL for the foreseeable fuckin' future so he gets me, I'm not a good tradeoff, anyone in their right mind would complain to the goddamn manufacturer and—and send me—send me back—" 

He goes quiet. Not in a good way. Like he's leaning against the wall in there, one hand shoved almost inside his mouth, biting down to keep himself silent. Dave's quiet, yeah, but he's quiet like he's crying. 

God damn. 

"Kid." 

No reply but stifled meaningless sounds. 

"Kid. Dave. This ain't a trade, and there's no way D's going to see it like that." No response, period; you shove your hands down deep in your pockets before you can try the door. "Hal and Dirk, you know how goddamn protective of you they are. You think their old man's going to be any different? Hell, he's—" 

"Stop _talking,_ " Dave chokes out, and you immediately do as he tells you, shutting your mouth and standing there silently. It takes him a minute to do anything else, but what he does is to unlock the door, jerking it open and almost-staggering a few steps out. 

Damn, even with his shades in the way he looks very fucking rough. "Kid—" 

"No." 

"Dave—"   
" _No,_ Jack, fuckin' drop it." 

Well. If Dave was capable of dropping the subject, you wouldn't have a problem with doing the same, but he's not. You know he's not. On the other hand, though, you can't really keep pushing, even if you keep the pressure gentle. Kid doesn't react well to that. 

Damn. Why the hell does this have to be so _hard_? 

"Come here," you tell the kid, and he just stares at you for a minute, like he doesn't even know what the hell to do with the hand you hold out to him. Another second and you'll withdraw it, move on before he feels like he's being forced into accepting the contact, but Dave shakes his head before that second's up, stepping close enough to lean against you just a bit. 

Damn. He's shaking. 

"Kid, it'll be fine." 

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever." He shakes his head slightly, pulling away from you after another few seconds. (You let him go, despite the instinct to keep him close.) The look he gives you is unreadable, even for you. 

"What?" At this point, you might as well ask. And guess at what he's thinking, when he just shrugs in response. "Uh. We can put off heading over to meet up with D and the twins—" 

"No. I wanna get it over with." The kid hesitates, sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. 

You wait for him to spit out what he's thinking. It takes him a minute. Maybe more. When he does, it actually leaves you at a loss for words for a moment.

"You're not gonna, like. Dump me there, right?" And of _course_ he takes your silence the absolute wrong way. Of course he does; you see the way he tenses up, how the set of his shoulders goes absolutely rigid as he slams his self control right the fuck down. "Fuck—Jack, if he doesn't want me as like, his kid, you can't just leave me, that's—" 

"Kid. Dave. _Hey._ " He flinches even before you reach out to touch his shoulder, and you stop yourself before you actually make contact. Damn, he thinks you'd just leave him? "You know how I call you my kid? That ain't just words, you know. Getting you out of the shit you were in, that was a choice I made, and sticking with you is another choice. I'm satisfied with both of them, but dumping you anywhere you don't want to be isn't a choice I'm planning on even considering." 

Does he believe you? He doesn't relax at all, that's for sure, but the look on his face shifts from careful blankness to something you tentatively categorize as _surprise._ Maybe _hope._

"I'm not dumping you," you tell him again, and he nods, slowly. "Hell, if you want to call the shots right now you can, you know. Not like I have anything time-sensitive that needs doing." 

Dave exhales, slowly; from the way his shoulders slump you're willing to bet he just closed his eyes behind the shades, trying to run through one of the calming exercises Rose keeps sending him. (You know about these because he's shown them to you under the guise of complaining about them, while actually asking your opinions on whether they're worth his time in as oblique a manner as possible. Nice to seem him trying to use that.) 

Again, you wait. You don't move toward him, you don't touch him, you don't try to rush him. 

Eventually, he shakes his head slightly, the angle of his head changing as he looks over at you again. "Let's go." 

"Where to?" 

You're not sure if the look on his face is a grimace or a grin, as he slips past you out of the bathroom. "D's place. _Obviously._ " 

He keeps surprising you, with how brave he is. You smother your proud smile at his choice, and follow right behind him.


	14. Chapter 14

_== > Dave: Imagine that Bro's here watching you._

Oh god bad idea bad idea _bad idea._

Like, theoretically? That oughta be an okay way to get yourself under control, not fuckin' cry, keep all the panic on the inside rather than letting it show like you just did. You _do_ still want to make him proud...and you still fear his disapproval, with every cell in your body.

But in practice?

In practice, thinking about the beatdown your bro woulda given you for how you can't help acting makes it markedly worse. Are you getting soft? Are you forgetting how to keep a facade up, how to shove emotions down under indifference and irony and _whatever_ layered so many times that it'd take a backhoe to dig out the sincerity?

Fuck.

Jack's hand comes down on your shoulder, gently. And yeah, you flinch. Of course you flinch. You're thinking about _Bro_ , after all.

Once you get a little way out of that shitty headspace, though, the contact is something to relax into. He's steering you towards one of the exits, apparently; you go along with that, letting yourself be moved in the right direction.

* * *

You've actually been in nice cars before. (Bro's had some classy-ish clients, after all, and he could definitely afford to just, like, buy an escort company if he wanted to. Wait, shit, not an escort company. He could _afford_ to buy/start one of those too, but you're not thinking of that, you just meant, like, a limo company. Nothing more. _Fuck._ )

Okay, mental rambling, that's nice. That's a thing you're doing. If your hands weren't shaking so bad you'd get out your phone and text somebody for comfort. Either Karkat or Rose. Probably Karkat. You know he's awake, after all; he lives pretty damn near where you are, right? Fuck, you should have doublechecked your geography (alternography?) before now, figured out exactly how far it is to go, like, drop in at his place when the meetup with D inevitably goes south...

Focus, Dave. Preferably on something other than the possible (probable) disaster ahead.

Okay. Okay.

You've been in cars this nice before, but never one with like, an alien as the driver. And the guy waiting is definitely an alien; he's vaguely human, almost like Jack, but instead of smooth black skin like a carapacian, or grey of some shade like the trolls, he's covered in what your mind _immediately_ classifies as short green fur. He looks like he'd be soft, _fuzzy_ to the touch, although you kinda don't think you'll be touching him. Not when he's got that genial blank look that you associate with a complete willingness to fuck shit up on his face, or at least what can be seen of it under his dark red hat.

(Seriously, what is it with aliens and hats?)

He's obviously been waiting a bit, too. Long enough to park the car in the spot for people waiting to pick arrivals up, long enough to get out of the car and lean against it like an ad for fancy-ass cars in some glossy magazine. (Do they still put that kind of ads in magazines, or is that just, like, some kind of outdated stereotype?)

You're not sure, but you _are_ sure that Jack's surprised to see this guy; you can feel the way his hand tightens fractionally on your shoulder, even if there's no sign of anything in his voice. "Crowbar. So you're the driver now?"

The driver smiles without showing his teeth, straightening up and nodding at the car as he pulls the door open. "For you? Yeah. Snowman sends her regards; she planned on sending them with Clover—"

"No thanks."

"I thought you'd say that. Traded shifts with him so you wouldn't be subjected to that." Another quick smile, as Jack pushes you to get in first; you slide across the seat, not-quite-missing the amusement on Jack's face as he gets in after you instead of going around to the other side. The driver—Crowbar—leans down, catching Jack's eyes for a second. "So you owe me a small-ish favor—"

"Don't have a problem with that."

"—and the boss told me to remind you that you owe her too; she wants to see your kid at some point."

Jack grunts, settling into his spot as Crowbar shuts the door and goes around to the front seat. "Yeah, sure, but not today. The agenda's already full."

You fight the urge to suggest that yeah, you totally should go see whoever Snowman is now. That's just you being a pussy though, too scared to want to go see D. Besides, why exactly do you think Snowman's the safer option? She's probably some kinda alien, right? Which seems to automatically drive the probability of her being pretty damn dangerous through the fucking roof, as far as you can tell; humans don't seem to be all that high up on the toughness spectrum, at least not as individuals—

Shit, Jack just said something. To you. "Uh..."

"Damn, kid, you're out of it." He shakes his head, calm eyes going over you again. Assessing how fucked you are right now, maybe? "Hey, Crowbar—"

"Jack, no." He's going to suggest a stop somewhere. You're pretty sure of that; the idea is probably to like, give you a lil' more time to calm down, adjust, whatever the fuck—but that's not what's gonna happen, and you know it. You're going to _think_ about this shit, if he lets you, psych yourself out and make the anxiety about what the hell D's going to think of you worse.

Actually, you're doing that right fucking now. Thinking. Hal's probably sitting there going over why you're on Alternia right now, isn't he? Talking about the fact that your bro's in jail (because of _you_ ) and you're here with...with an alien, you guess, Hal and Dirk know Jack's not human. An alien who adopted you. Kind of. Because he had to. Well, maybe he didn't _have_ to, but he kind of did, he's said that he wasn't planning on leaving you in that (fucked up) situation and this was the only real option—

If D demands that _he_ get the custody papers, what's Jack going to do?

No. Stop. _Stop._

He's not going to ditch you. And even if he did, D's not like Bro, you're panicking over fucking nothing. Nothing bad is gonna happen. The worst thing is that D tells you to fuck off, you have a goddamn meltdown right there, and Jack takes you...wherever home is right now.

God, you shouldn't be so scared.

* * *

**== > Jack: Begin to understand the definition of "fatherly concern." **

He's not even really ignoring you at this point. That might be the most fucked up part of it. Yeah, Dave doesn't react to your question about whether he's heard from the twins since the two of you left the spaceport, he doesn't respond when you ask him if he wants to stop somewhere and get food, but you're one hundred percent sure that it's not because he's choosing to not answer. More like, your voice just isn't registering, at all.

He's got his shades on, so you can't see his eyes, but you're willing to bet that they're either closed or unfocused. Not present, basically. The only movement he makes is his hands working in his lap, closing into fists and opening again, palms getting redder each time from the sheer pressure of his short nails.

You let him do that for maybe two minutes, then reach over and take his hands in yours. It doesn't really make him _stop,_ exactly, but now he's bearing down on your hands instead of his own, and your skin's markedly tougher than a human's. Hell, it barely even hurts you.

Crowbar's watching you in the rearview mirror, you notice. You deliberately catch his eye, grimace slightly at him. It's a small movement, but he gets the hint, focusing on the road instead.

"I'm not going soft," you tell him, and he makes that short trill that's the leprechaun version of chuckling. "Hey. Shut it. I've seen you with Clover and Die, fucker."

More chuckling trills. God damn it.

* * *

Some short but not-quite-definable length of time later, Crowbar pulls the car to a stop, looking at you in the mirror again and this time raising an eyebrow. That's understandable, you suppose; Dave still doesn't move, doesn't give any sign that he realizes the journey's over.

Alright, then.

"Kid. Dave. Hey." You pull your hands out of his grip, lean over and tap his shoulder. "You hear me?"

"Something wrong with him?" Crowbar asks, and you shrug.

"Not really. Shut up. Dave?"

That repetition of his name seems to connect; the kid shakes himself slightly, one hand coming up to automatically adjust his shades before he looks away from you, out the window. You catch the way he tenses when he realizes that the car's not moving, too, and the mumbled "... _fuck,_ " that slips out of his mouth.

Well, damn. "You ready?"

"Fuck no." Even as he says it, he's reaching for the door. "Let's go."

* * *

**== > Dave: Don't panic. **

(Yeah, right. Sure. Totally.)

Jack hits the doorbell, mostly because it's obvious to everyone concerned that you're not going to do anything but stare at the damn thing. His free hand settles on your shoulder at the same time, and you _know_ he's trying to calm you at least a little, but fuck. _Fuck._

You can't do it. You can't calm down, you can't do _this_ , you're almost as far away from Houston as it's possible to be just so you can meet up with D and Dirk and Hal, and you—

Dirk opens the door. You get a bare second's look at his face, the brief unguarded look of absolute _relief_ that you can barely process on someone related to you—and then he's got his arms around you, yanking you into the building and fucking _hugging_ you like he's auditioning for a part in a cheap soap opera.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. For a second your body just like, won't cooperate. Like, you knew Dirk was gonna be happy to see you, him and Hal spent hours talking you into believing they both wanted you here, but. _Fuck_.

That moment of paralysis wears off, you fucking _sob_ trying to say Dirk's name, and you cling to him like a goddamn baby koala. It's in the back of your mind that he's not gonna want you to be this much of a needy bitch, that he'll pull away, but...

He doesn't. Just holds you, not saying a word as you fight to not start crying. (You kind of lose the fight. Kind of.)

When Dirk does say something, it's directed over his shoulder, not at you. "Hal! Time's up!"

Even with your face pretty much smushed up against Dirk's shirt, you hear somebody (D, probably) go, "Wait, why are we on a time limit? What—holy _fuck_?"

That tone of bemused surprise is enough to motivate you to pull away from Dirk, even if you kind of really don't want to.

And yeah, you see exactly what you like of expected. It's D, currently minus his shades so you can see every ounce of shock on his face—Hal didn't tell him, did he? He didn't know you were coming, he doesn't—

"Jesus fuck, Dave," D says in a voice that's got barely any air in it, and Dirk pushes you gently towards him. You go along with the shove, because that's what you _do_...which means you step right into D as he opens his arms to hug you too.

Unlike Dirk, he doesn't keep his mouth shut.

"God fucking dammit, Hal, you didn't tell me he was here—"

"I was getting to that," Hal says from somewhere near you, and you feel his hand on your head, ruffling up your hair.

"Bullshit you were, you lil' fucker—shit, Dave, he was telling me all this shit, I can't fucking believe—"

(In the space between words your heart drops like a stone in deep water. He doesn't believe it. Doesn't believe the shit Bro put you through. That's his brother; of course he doesn't believe it.)

"—he did that shit, fucking _bastard_ —I'm so sorry, bro, you know I would've done something if I'd known, I never would've let him keep you, I swear—"

Oh, thank god.

Okay.

Jack's making a soft sound that you can tentatively classify as laughter; you're pretty sure he's in the house rather than outside now, which is a relief. Having them shut him out, that'd be...bad. Leave it at that. D's got you wrapped up as tight as he can hold you, just about, Hal's still messing with your hair and Dirk's hand is on your shoulder and god _damn_ but you feel. You don't know how you feel. You can't find the words—something so positive, so fucking unexpectedly safe and loved and _good_ that you—

"Dave?"

You know that voice. Weren't expecting it, never heard him any way other than over a videochat, but you _know_ him.

You know him.

Holy _shit._

* * *

**== > Jack: **

You're perfectly fine with staying a couple steps back right now. This is a family thing, a Strider thing, and while you might be the kid's family, you sure as hell ain't a Strider. Eh, you're okay with where you are, just watching. They'll want to talk to you in a minute.

The kid looks so dumbfoundedly happy. You wonder when the last time he was anywhere near this happy was.

Then somebody says his name—not you, not any of the Striders—and as you look over to the door to the other room and see a young-ish troll with rounded horns almost lost in his hair, a sweater that's just barely too big for him, and a look of absolute disbelief on his face, Dave makes a strangled sound. For a second, you worry, but then he jerks away from D, stares at the troll kid for a second, and fucking _launches_ himself at him.

The troll, who's just barely taller than Dave but probably outweighs him by half his body mass, doesn't even stagger. He makes a sound that almost matches the one the kid made, with the addition of a possessive purring chirr mixed in, and more-or-less hauls Dave off his feet like he weighs nothing at all.

D takes a step towards them, and you immediately slide forward to block him. "Let 'em be." Behind you, the kid's sobbing and not even trying to hide it; if this is affecting him enough for him to give up on covering up his emotions, you're going to make sure no one fucks it up.

The man just stares at you, obviously more confused than before. Shit, you still haven't been introduced, have you?

Hal apparently sees the problem at the same time you do, though. He touches D's arm, pulls him back a pace. "Should I finish explaining, then?"

"Can you?" Dirk asks wryly, still staring at Dave and the troll. "Because I think I'd like to hear it too. How the hell does he know Karkat?"

Hal shrugs, and looks at you. Great, now they're _all_ looking at you.

You raise your hands in the most placating gesture you feel like making. "Look, I met the kid maybe a month ago, I'm still figuring shit out."

"And who—" D begins. Hal cuts him off.

"Jack Noir. He's the one who has custody of Dave." Thankfully, he doesn't bring up your other alias. That could be a bitch to explain. "Thank you for that, by the way. We owe you."

D nods, still staring at you, a bit more thoughtfully now. You're less than surprised at his next question.

"So, what, you're here to drop him off?"

Funny. You actually planned to include Dave in this discussion. Figure out what he wanted, maybe give him a nice clean list of options. When D asks you that, though, you just...answer.

"Nah. Until he says he's not okay with it, he's my kid. But we're here for the foreseeable future, anyway." From the way Dave's clinging to the troll—to Karkat—you suspect that the foreseeable future might roll over into permanancy very easily.

And hey, if it keeps him happy, you think you are absolutely fine with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art by [piscesemoji](https://piscesemoji.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
